


this doesn’t have to be a sad song

by blackcanarys



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-05-07 11:42:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19208674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackcanarys/pseuds/blackcanarys
Summary: In which the Starks and Lannisters own rivaling law firms, and Catelyn Stark coerces Jaime Lannister into working for Stark & Tully. Jaime and Brienne, when forced to work together, turn out to be rather successful together, no matter how they personally felt about the other.Feat: an eventual betting pool that accumulates too much money, far too quickly.





	1. it's time to connect the dots

**Author's Note:**

> title from little black dress by sara bareilles

There really was nothing quite like Stark and Tully; the swarm of lawyers who were unable to do anything less than take themselves seriously.

Catelyn Stark welcomes them into the gray building, sleek and modern, that damned direwolf decorating the walls everywhere they went. Jaime looks on with haughty disinterest, Tyrion with inquiry and cleverly disguised amusement, while Tywin, dear old father, looks unblinkingly at the Tully red hair they’re meant to follow. The three security guards tailing them certainly didn’t help, Jaime notes with vague amusement. Whatever Tully wanted, he wasn’t sure he cared too much. It was merely a power ploy. Nothing more.

Catelyn Tully, Stark, _whatever_ , describes to them in minute detail the departmental organization of the floors, nothing really of interest—nothing they didn’t know already that was, as Jaime resists the urge to tell Bronn to make up an excuse to get him and Tyrion out of this hell, right and proper. He’s stopped listening by the first, instead observing the reactions of the people working there—dislike, suspicion, hatred. He hears _Kingslayer_ more than once, that damned nickname staying some twenty years later. It’s funny, how it’s supposed to hurt him. He’s long mastered resistance to flinching when he hears it. 

Tyrion looks on with some show of interest, posing their host a few questions; probing questions, meant to extract some sort of information. Not that Stark would give it, she was too well guarded for it.

If it’s a farce Catelyn Tully Stark wanted, then it’s well achieved. Father looks on with annoyance and disgust, and if it’s a competition of how fast the Lannister men would lose their temper, Jaime would put his money on him. Not that he would show it, of course, but no doubt he would spend eons searching for a way to _properly_ punish the Starks. That, Jaime doesn’t doubt. Lannister Law & Associates was anything if not thorough.

Tywin Lannister’s patience is near endless, but it does not stop him from cutting off Catelyn Stark. “Surely you must have a better use of your time,” he tells, “unless you’ve decided to continue procreating. Five is more than enough.”

Catelyn Stark ignores the jab. She forges ahead, giving them a uniquely detailed description of their HR department. Jaime wants nothing more than a drink in his hand, Tyrion already making a call, no doubt to tell Bronn to pick up whiskey as soon as the man was able.

Jaime’s already heard names he recognizes—Robert’s two brothers, straight-laced and personality-less Stannis, and Renly, the publicist that somehow managed the damned department despite well, being rather unqualified. The Tyrells were here, of course, Margaery in marketing and Loras, who looked like he was strutting down the runaway instead of grey cubicles. The rest, he notices without acknowledgement.

Tyrion sighs by his side. “Is she done?” Quietly, he asks, his cellphone very obvious from his pocket. “Bronn is raiding father’s personal store for something from the Iron Islands”—here, Tyrion’s scowl is in full force—“though I doubt he’ll find anything. Ale, perhaps.”

Jaime wants to make a pained face badly. “Surely, Bronn will find something stronger than ale. We’ll need it, by the looks of it.”

Tyrion looks at him with barely raised eyebrows. “Bronn will find something strong.”

“It’ll taste like piss.” Jaime replies, yearning for whatever the man would buy. Surely, it couldn’t beat this miserable excuse of a tour.

Father continues to look in dislike—his contempt is obvious if one knew where to look, in how or where he focused his attention on, and how biting his line of questioning was. After verbally eviscerating the disorganization that was Robb Stark’s desk, there were only _two_ stacks of papers misplaced, Jaime’s desk was far worse, he then turned to asking about the qualifications of the security here. Catelyn Stark smiles nonchalantly, before inviting them into the elevator, to the top floor.

Her desk overlooks King’s Landing, the skyscraper giving way to a clear view of the city around them. Lannister Law & Associates sits within sight, a lion encased and outlined by crimson. Jaime had remembered how long it had taken for the logo to come up—father had spent months complaining about this or that perceived fault, that it looked _gaudy_ , _cheap_ , _pathetic_ or in the words of the man himself, _the laughing stock of all the seven kingdoms_.

To this day, Jaime couldn’t look at that damned logo without wanting to drain his glass. Tyrion’s unending number of flasks helped.

Tyrion steps closer to the window, tilting his head down to see how high up they were. Jaime looks at him in silent disapproval—father was here, but since he was so busy haggling with an austere Catelyn Stark, he had _almost_ resorted to threats of murder.

“Jaime, Tyrion,” Tywin Lannister calls to them, mood sour and tone severe. “Step away from the ledge.”

“Oh relax,” Tyrion replies instinctively, impervious to whatever tone it was Tywin Lannister took. “Jaime and I were just admiring the scenery.”

“Tyrion’s still alive,” Jaime adds, “much to your disappointment. Besides, the Lion of Lannister is rather majestic from this height, don’t you think?”

Tywin’s glare, if possible, grows more severe. 

Catelyn Stark beckons to the two seats on either side of Tywin Lannister. “There is business to discuss. Sit down.”

The blinds close automatically around them, as Catelyn Stark continues look at peace. The television on the opposite side of the wall flickers to life as a video begins to play. Jaime is no stranger to the date on the video—it’d been the summer before he started college, working as intern for the late Prime Minister Aerys Targaryen. He remembers that summer, so intimately that if he closed his eyes, he could replay it minute by minute, every detail painstakingly etched in his memory by nightmares, counsel and interrogations by various lawyers, statements given to the police.

It shows his face, then seventeen, and his back with a knife in hand. The audio is muted, unsalvageable— _all the better_ , he wants to laugh bitterly, _to make me look guiltier_. Aerys Targaryen had been a tyrant, deluded by his obsession with fire and the desire to burn people alive while everyone present had been forced to watch every excruciating detail; the screams, the burnt skin, the odd ways in which the bodies were twisted, distorted and destroyed further for cruelties sake. The Mad King raves, Jaime hearing his words loud and clear, the memory haunting his every step, longer than he had been alive prior to that. _Burn them all. Burn them all. Burn them all_. He cannot shake the ghosts from his eyes. Tyrion sends him warning glances, plenty of them—all of them ignored. It is as if Jaime were still there that hot summer day, the hunting knife he’d taken from Aerys’ own personal collection. He can still feel the knife in his hand, the worn leather hilt soft to the touch, the blade sharp and pointed.

Gods, how he had hated studying political science for those four years. So much so, he took a double major in anthropology just so he could have an excuse to pursue a very futile doctorate while completing the required juris doctorate. He’d even tossed in a masters for the fun of it—besides, while the work was challenging, it didn’t give him night terrors. He still had all the degrees hung on his wall. He grips the chair tightly as the video finishes, as Tywin Lannister draws the full strength of his anger into his voice—“What is your _point_ , Stark?” 

Catelyn Stark is nonplussed as they turn to face her. “Ned had a copy of that footage,” and as if to illustrate her point, “he never told anyone he had it.”

Jaime has seen his father this furious on few occasions—none of which, he cared to repeat unless he wanted nightmares to invade his sleep for the next month or so. He’d be visited by that summer some twenty years ago in his dreams regardless, he thinks as he maintains every illusion of control.

Tywin Lannister’s voice is controlled as he speaks. The deadliest kind of anger then, Jaime notes. “What do you intend to do with that footage? Reopening the investigation into Aerys’ death will only result in a mistrial.”

“I’m aware,” Stark tells him, her red hair thick pulled behind her shoulders, tumbling down her back. She slides over three grey folders, slim and inconspicuous. “They’re identical.”

Never let it be known that Catelyn Tully Stark wasn’t cunning and ruthless, because she was.

Tywin takes the top one, distaste evident in the two paged summary enclosed. His only response: “No.”

Jaime watches as Tyrion reads the file, eyes widening as he reread the damned thing with a note of desperation in his face.

Jaime suspects the folder contains something about the late Prime Minister Targaryen. A statement, perhaps, to finally lead to a successful prosecution of his murder. Testimony from some unknown survivor that day, alleging that he had done this to advance the Lannister family influence. The hand he doesn’t use to open the folder cramps with nervous energy.

Jaime releases a breath, long and heavy as he reads the terms enclosed. “Fine,” he answers quietly, “but only if you swear to the seven that we will be able to leave with the only copy of that footage. You have to swear that this is all you have.”

Catelyn Stark casts him a critical look—if she’s trying to search for a reaction, Jaime has lived with this for over half his life. He knows better than to give anyone the concrete truth. She hands him a pen.

Father glares at him. “You will not sign that document,” his tone venomous, gaze even more so. This is what raw fury looked like, a total and complete calm exterior, calculating in both the short term and long term.

“Jaime doesn’t have a choice,” Tyrion tells Tywin, “we’ve been outmaneuvered and we don’t know how far _that_ ”—the video, Jaime’s inner turmoil roils—“has spread.” The implied: _knowledge is power and we don’t know how many people the Lady Stark has informed or shared this with. Our only option is to take the offer we have been given_.

 _Death would be kinder_ , Jaime thinks. He dared not to express that sentiment out loud.

Tywin Lannister is a proud man, not without his streaks of cruelty. But, even he isn’t stupid as to imagine that he can have the upper hand here, surrounded by Starks and the threat of unreported evidence that would reopen the wave of rumors that had followed their family for years, seriously undermine their standing with the public.

His only order: “Sign the document.” He watches as Jaime signs on the dotted line, before telling Catelyn Stark: “I will take that computer when we leave. Delete any backup copies, if you have those.”

Catelyn Stark pulls out the USB from the side of the computer. “Ned only kept one copy of the video,” she tells, “it is yours.” She collects the folder from Jaime, while handing the USB to Tyrion. A slight to the patriarch of the Lannister family, delivered in Tully red hair and the calculating, unforgiving nature of the North.

She opens the blinds, the sunlight an unwelcome and unaware visitor to what had just taken place; very few people could gain the upper hand on Tywin Lannister, and yet she had managed it with calm wrapped in steely consideration, checkmating the man who had spent twenty years managing the affairs of Westeros with an iron fist. “Thank you for your time,” she tells them, but there is no kindness in her eyes. They’re effectively dismissed.

Jaime looks forward to the cheapest and crudest drink Bronn could find—anything, so he could find peace in his sleep, or a distraction during the day. 

 

 

Bronn finds ale that tastes like dog piss—it’s splendidly horrible, he thinks as he nurses it. Bitter, biting, _awful_. Tyrion takes one sip and hands him the glass; he orders the strongest vodka the bar has, then finishes it like water. It’s still early in the morning: eight, nine, when the day was supposed to _begin_ , and all Jaime can think about is how he would spend the night in cold sweat, waking up in the early morning and heading to the gym to prevent himself from as much as thinking about what had happened.

He knows he will dream of Aerys Targaryen, the way he knows he will relieve his descent in pyromanic madness in maddening detail, utterly unpreventable, a free fall for all to view in horror. He knows he will shake when he awakes, that his throat will undoubtably be sore, that all he will have is water and an aspirin, and by the time he will be done, he would have pushed his body to the limit, sore and aching. He wasn’t twenty anymore, he grimaces as he swirls the ale around the glass. He actually had to deal with hangovers, but in this instance, hangovers were a welcome surprise. Beyond welcome.

Tyrion sighs, long and weary. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Jaime’s answer, as habitual as it had been since the madness had ended. “No.”

Tyrion, again. “Are you _sure_?”

Jaime knows his brother wants to help, but these were secrets he could barely afford to say out loud, so he doesn’t. They’re his to keep, his to tell and his to bury. The less people knew, the better. _For everyone’s sake_ , he thinks, but it is not a comforting thought. It’s never been a comforting thought.

His phone dings. It hurts his ears, his head and whatever other parts of his body it affected. Tyrion opens it, as Jaime finishes the glass. It’s immediately refilled, by a bartender whose face he doesn’t look at, but if he were guessing, a mutual friend of both Tyrion and Bronn. _Shae?_ He frowns, but she and Tyrion were already broken up. He wonders if the bartender has dark, curly hair and a preference for dwarves.

Tyrion reads it out: “Catelyn Stark wants to remind you that you are to send in your two weeks notice to Lannister Law & Associates. She’s even provided a template letter for you to sign.” Tyrion takes the time to finish his shot. “You are to show up in three weeks notice on Monday—punctual, polite and a team player. She did not mention how long you would be required to work there.”

Jaime decides that the ale Bronn found must’ve been from the North—it tastes like it, anyways. He forces the words out, bitterness unconcealed. “Indefinitely, I suppose. Did Stark mention a partner of some kind?”

Tyrion reads the email again. “She said the two of you would be formally acquainted when you show up at Stark and Tully.”

“Are you showing up to work today?” Jaime asks his brother, knowing what the answer was. Even just mentioning the shitstorm that had occurred after the stabbing of Aerys would result in at least half a day of drinking to make it manageable; it certainly had not gotten kinder the longer time went on.

“What do you think?” Tyrion scoffs, his tone sour as Bronn wisely decides not to insert his two cents. “Verbal testimony was brutal enough, much less watching live footage.” His tone is as acidic as it comes, his own ghosts plenty alive in wake of _that_.

Jaime has learned not to ask Tyrion about what haunts him, as he knows Tyrion will not ask him what keeps him up at night. It’s a steady compromise, on the double edged sword of alcoholism and being taught from birth that showing emotions were weakness and that it made one naturally inferior. There’s more to it than that, bur he’s not in the mood to unpack it.

Jaime has choked back plenty of regret—perhaps that was why he had been so fond of swimming and other sports that took place in odd hours of the day, when he knew no one would dare to disturb him, since they would all be resting. Sleep had evaded him for years now, peace not far behind. But, that had been the price to pay, and it had been paid in full and more.

Now, he was a bit of an insomniac. It hardly seemed like the worse consequence that had presented itself over the years.

“Bronn?” Tyrion calls for the other man. “You’re off duty until we call you to pick us up. Find a nice stripper to fondle for me, won’t you?”

Jaime sighs, in that he had never been able to understand Tyrion’s love for hookers. It was hardly the worse outlet to relieve stress with, but certainly rather distasteful. He doesn’t need to look to know Bronn was grinning, broadly, waving his brother off.

 

 

As Jaime predicts, sleep, the peaceful kind he was able to induce with milk of poppy, evades him. He dreams of Aerys Targaryen so many times that when he wakes at five in the morning, he considers it a blessing. His apartment is a welcome refuge, his couches sprawled out in all directions, pushed against the walls with blankets and pillows scattered all around so that when he wasn’t working out, he was sleeping, or he was drinking.

Cersei doesn’t stop by. He isn’t surprised. Their falling out had been, well—he hadn’t seen his niece and nephews in _months_ as it was, and the holiday invitations and gifts had been fleeting regardless. There’s a joke there, somewhere, but he knows full well he’s the punchline. Christmases with Tyrion were better, but still lonely. It was a game between them; how fast the other could get drunk, their tolerance already ridiculously high as it was.

Those nights, however, Jaime slept without dreams, without shadows, without anything. The blasted two day old headaches made it _well_ worth it. At least he wasn’t forty yet—still technically thirty eight, thirty nine, close enough to being a middle aged man without the blasted reputation that came with it.

It certainly helped that he wore his hair long enough, sun-kissed blonde highlights lightening his light brown. The appearances of youth did make life so much easier.

In any case, the three weeks pass without fanfare. Tyrion sends him his sympathies the Sunday before he was meant to go, two flasks of whatever potent solution Jaime hadn’t asked about, he trusted Tyrion, and all the things vacated from his office at Lannister Law & Associates.

He doesn’t remember how he spent that Sunday, nor does he really want to refresh his memory.

 

 

Monday arrives and Jaime wants death. He truly, _dearly_ , wants death to claim him.

“You’re being dramatic,” Tyrion tells him with an eye roll, on his couch in Jaime’s apartment. “It’s only eight hours.”

Jaime scoffs. “You know damn well it’s more than eight hours.” _You take the work home with you_ , he wants to say, but Catelyn Stark _expected_ him to show up on time, and so he would, his pockets with the two flasks in his pocket. He hopes his red and gold tie is obnoxious enough—it’s the brightest one he has.

Tyrion rolls his eyes. “I’ll buy you dinner tonight. Now, go to work.”

Jaime makes sure to slam the door behind him, knowing how much Tyrion disliked the sound of slammed doors.

 

The tour of Stark and Tully remains the same, but the sip of whatever mixture Tyrion had given him made it all the more enjoyable. Catelyn Stark leads him around again, with woman with pale blonde hair, from some island off the coast of Westeros. _Tarth_ , he thought he heard, as the woman only slightly taller than him stood beside him. _She could fit into his things without any significant adjustments_ , he thinks, _though she would never need a tie_.

She was certainly not the most attractive of women, but something draws his attention right away. Bright, blue eyes— _it’s said the eyes were the window to the soul_ , he thinks with much weariness, _and she seemed to despise him_. Not that they’d made very lovely first impressions: she’d insisted on calling him _Kingslayer_ , seemingly unaware that the press had eaten her alive for the attempted assassination on Renly Baratheon. So he’d called her _Kingslayer_ back, and watched as she flinched.

Funny thing about nicknames: sometimes they were out of your control. All one could do was to make do and make it your own. The Tarth woman had not.

Not that it was her fault—that had been the red woman that no one had seen in ages, but she had been the first person there, and all the papers had blamed her for it. By the time the truth had come out, Brienne Tarth had become a _Kingslayer_ as well.

If Jaime had liked her more, he would’ve told her to wear it as a mark of pride. But since the building universally despised him, he doubted the advice would’ve been well received.

“ _Kingslayer_ ,” he calls her, “ _Tarth_. How tall are you?”

“Does it matter, _Lannister_?” She hisses back, glaring at him. “You’re the original Kingslayer, I don’t need the title for myself.”

“Funny,” he’d replied coldly, “I remember that’s what the the papers called you. Brienne the Beauty, wasn’t it? They exaggerated how ugly you were.”

She’d glared at him proper there, at the booth of Margaery Tyrell. “Was that a compliment, Kingslayer?”

He’d had to look up at her. She was taller than him. “Your eyes are beautiful. The papers were lying.”

Margaery Tyrell had pulled out her cell to record them, laughter alight on her face. Jaime has a feeling that he will have to field a call from Olenna Tyrell one of these days. Brienne continues glaring at him. “You’re a very odd man.” It seems like she wanted to shake her head, like there was something she was _missing_. From his observation, she had a body built like his. Nothing wrong for a man, but for women—well, he’d been around Tyrion and Bronn to know what to expect and what not to expect.

There were better ways to antagonize his new work partner than insult her appearances. She was aware of those, it seemed, regardless. No use rubbing salt in an open wound, not like half his family did.

“Tarth,” he asks her as they finally reach their shared desk, “are you single? I don’t see a ring on your finger.”

“Neither do I,” she’d replied coldly, haughtily, “how old are you? Fifty?” The people around her sniggered.

“Not yet forty,” he’d told her with a glare, “perhaps you’re talking about your boyfriend then.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she told him as he started up his new computer. His username and email was _kingslayer_. The door to their work station remained open, Margaery Tyrell and her brother Loras suspiciously close by, cells in their pockets, set to record whatever happened.

Jaime closes the door, then takes a sip from his flask. 

She frowns at him. “You’re not supposed to be drinking at work.”

He retorts. “You’re not my mother.” _She’s been dead for years_ , Jaime thinks, _died giving birth to Tyrion_.

She flinches, like someone had slapped her.

This was personal, he surmises so he sighs. “My mother died giving birth to my brother,” and there’s a shrugging notion there, “I was seven.”

She gives him a suspicious look. “Why are you telling me this? I hope it’s not out of pity.” The second part is softer, kinder for some godsforsaken reason—sympathy, it sounds like.

“Hardly,” he tells her, a stack of cases by his desk. The legal pad by his desk is filled with scrawls, barely legible. “I don’t remember her.” That was the long and short of it, anyway, as he takes notes on the file he has open. The flask he opened sits on his desk, a lonely metal thing among white plastic.

Some time later, the woman, Tarth, _Brienne_ , glares at her computer screen. She usually hums as she works, a pleasant little tune Jaime doesn’t recognize. He wonders if she’d appreciate the _Rains of Castamere_. Probably not.

“What’s wrong?” He can’t stop himself from asking because she’s not _humming_ and she looks at the computer the way he looks at Tyrion when they’re discussing things while drinking. “You’ve stopped that blasted humming of yours.”

She takes the liberty of forwarding the email to him—it’s from Margaery Tyrell, of course, her brother and Renly CC’d as well. Some video of the two of them from the hall earlier and the question ‘ _Are you sure you’ve never met him before?_ ’ The email address still bothers him.

“Ignore them,” he tells Tarth, his fellow Kingslayer, “they’ll find something new to gossip about soon.”

“I don’t—” Tarth looks at her cell. “They won’t.” She doesn’t say what the message says. He decides he doesn’t want to know. A betting pool of some kind? The Tyrells had a monopoly on such things, though he knew Tyrion enjoyed them for the same reason. 

He passes over his legal pad; the title of the case scribbled across the tip, legible enough. She has a copy of the files, and so she peruses the file using his notes as a reference. She’s silent for a long time, having gone back to her humming.

She passes the notepad back, her red pen correcting his notes in better writing. Grudgingly, she tells him. “They’re not bad.” She’d fixed about half the notes with other cases they could use to support their argument.

They work in silence for a little while longer, before he prompts: “Are you _sure_ you’re single?” He’s asking out of curiosity, really, and it sounds a bit like an offer. Seven hells.

She blushes, horribly. “Yes,” and she goes back to her work, determined to ignore him and everything he stood for. He even made the effort to take at least two sips from his flask. She didn’t say a word.

 _Not the worst partner to work for_ , he thinks as he leaves twenty minutes early. His car was parked towards the end of the parking lot, and he’d be happy if it showed no signs of vandalism.

Off to dinner with Tyrion, in any case.


	2. sparks fly (literally)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Brienne is the center of workplace gossip and then invited to dinner with Olenna Tyrell, Jaime Lannister is discussed and as it turns out, there is quite a lot of (sexual) tension between Jaime and Brienne.
> 
> The betting pool flourishes.

It was an _open_ secret that Jaime Lannister would be Brienne’s new partner. Catelyn’s newest, and most controversial, hire, so naturally, she would have to babysit the damned Kingslayer while Catelyn, a woman Brienne had high esteem for, could play politics with the _fucking_ Lannisters.

How ironic, she thinks with more anger than she wants to acknowledge, that she, who had largely despised the label Kingslayer, would be forced to work with _the_ Kingslayer. She had had nothing to do with the attempt on Renly’s life, the first person there, and yet she’d been crucified and branded one anyways. She despises that nickname with all she has.

 _If anything_ , Brienne thinks, _this would backfire_. Not that she didn’t trust Catelyn, _she did_ , but the Lannisters were not known for their lenience, nor their kindness. She remembered how the three men had looked from the side—aloof, apart, like there were plenty of people there they could openly look down on, and so they did. The short one, the dwarf, asked Catelyn questions—nonstop, persistent questions, while the father looked around in total and complete disregard. She knows men like these: they’d always underestimated her, and always would.

The papers had not done Jaime Lannister justice—he’s more handsome in person, the suit he’d worn crafted for his body. His eyes were piercing, yet fleeting—observant, deep and she finds that she already dislikes this man and his sheer _arrogance_. What right did he have, to be this proud, to think he was better than half this office?

None, she thinks, as she joins Margaery for lunch. Loras and Renly were there, huddled together, unspoken secrets between them.

Margaery tells them, brilliant brown hair parted down her shoulder, in excited whispers. “I watched them leave”—the smile on her face is as bright as the sun, in smugness—“they were furious.”

“That’s not a good thing,” Renly says with a furrow in his brow. “I know their family—Tywin won’t forget. He won’t punish us, but he will punish the Starks.”

Brienne must look worried, because he reassures her. “You’ll be fine, Brienne. Jaime, at least, has more honor than his father.”

Brienne wants to laugh. “You’re kidding,” she watches Renly’s face. “You’re not.”

“Cersei’s a bitch,” Renly tells them darkly, “and the brothers are tolerable.”

“The Kingslayer is without honor, without dignity and without shame,” she complains, “and I’m supposed to _work_ with him?”

Margaery raises her eyebrows, ever so delicately. “You don’t have to like the man to work with him.” Then, she adds, “you sound quite distressed about this.”

Brienne doesn’t need to tell Margaery that _when_ , and it was _when_ , not _if_ , this became public knowledge, the press would be all over, and she’d have to endure another round of public scrutiny. There were reasons both she and Renly were immensely private, and following the first shitstorm—well. Her concerns were justified. “Couldn’t Catelyn assign him to someone else?”

Margaery sighs. “Who would she assign him to? You’re the only lawyer here who doesn’t completely despise him.”

Loras takes the bottle from Renly’s hand, looking weary. “It’s for his protection, not yours.” She and Loras were never on the best of terms, following _that_ ordeal, and he holds her with a cautious distance. She doesn’t blame him. “Not that your reputation is very salvageable.”

“if Catelyn means to hold him hostage,” she turns to Margaery, “then why can’t he have his own desk? Make him utterly useless.”

“Why would you waste talent like that?” Margaery asks, “he may have an unrefutable character flaws, but there’s a reason Lannister & Associates have kept him around for all these years—he wins cases for them.”

“It wasn’t all nepotism?” Loras asks dubiously, and if Margaery glares at her brother, no one says anything.

“If it was,” Margaery tells, “Lancel Lannister would run the firm.”

At which, the bottle of whatever it was Renly kept found itself open and drained rather quickly.

“Bring Southern wine next time,” Margaery tells Renly, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here. It’s pervasive enough—the stench of Lannister pride, Tyrion Lannister’s witticisms, Jaime Lannister’s insatiable ego and Tywin Lannister’s cold fury. “Something from Highgarden or Dorne.”

“The papers still call me _Kingslayer_ ,” she sighs, “even though I never killed anyone. They’ll go to town when they find out I’m working with _the_ Kingslayer.”

Margaery rubs circles across Brienne’s palm, slowly, softly. “I’d tell you to ignore them, but that’s not true, is it?” _Words are more powerful any weapon ever created_ , Margaery had told her once, brushing Brienne’s hair out of her face, _so learn to twist them to your advantage_. Not that Brienne would be able, but nonetheless.

She sighs. The office is cramped with the four of them, but it’s an arrangement that has worked out better _here_ than in the staff room. There’s more privacy here. “At least I have three weeks before I have to deal with him daily.”

Margaery laughs, light as a feather, light as air. “That’s the spirit. Although,” she leans in conspicuously, “you will tell me every detail. He’s quite fit, if you must know.”

“Aren’t you still crushing after Sansa Stark?” Brienne asks.

“I am,” Margaery replies, “but it doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate good looking men.”

Loras snorts. Renly rolls his eyes.

“You’ve seen him,” Margaery directs her comments at Brienne, “don’t you agree?”

“I’m not going to jump his bones just because he has high cheekbones and green eyes,” Brienne rolls her eyes.

“No one said you had to have sex with him,” Margaery reminds her, “although he has no personal life so to speak of. Hasn’t, really.”

Renly takes the bottle from Loras. “Robert invites him to Baratheon family dinners,” he gazes into some unknown spot on the wall, “him and Tyrion. If you do fuck him, tell me so Robert will never let him forget it. Anything is better than listening to Stannis.” There’s either fondness, exasperation or some combination thereof on his face, thinking of those brothers of his.

“Does he ever plan on retiring? It’s been twenty three years.” Brienne asks. He’d been Prime Minister for as long as she could remember.

“The Lannisters support him,” Renly replies, “while Ned Stark runs the realm. Quite a _lovely_ political arrangement there.”

“So never,” Brienne surmises, while Margaery takes the bottle from Loras. She hands the bottle to Brienne.

“He has a bastard,” Renly tells, “a boy called Gendry. Still more legitimate than that demon child Joffrey and the younger two children.” His face softens when he thinks of the latter two.

“I don’t know anyone who tolerates Joffrey,” Loras replies, “except that mother of his. She worships the ground he walks on.”

“Are you surprised?” Margaery asks, “I’ve never met a worse person in my life than Cersei Lannister Baratheon.”

“She never changed her last name after marrying Robert,” Renly supplies, “something he has spent the last twenty years harping about.”

Brienne just wishes the two of them would just get a divorce. It was yet to happen.

Margaery raises an eyebrow in surprise. “How’d the Lannisters take it?”

Renly can’t help but laugh. “Which one? They’re all a bunch of miserable fucks.”

“Tywin,” Margaery replies, laughing. “I doubt her brothers gave two shits either way.”

“Tywin doesn’t think highly of women,” Renly tells her, “because they can give birth and he can’t.” He snorts then, shaking with laughter. “He still misses that wife of his, the one that died thirty years ago.”

Margaery raises an eyebrow again. “And the brothers?”

Renly shakes his head, laughing. “They were both drunk out of their minds at her wedding, mind you. I don’t think they noticed.”

The number of stories Brienne has heard about the Lannisters fills her with dread, only dread. “How—” she starts, “ _how_ are they still alive?”

“Spite?” Renly offers, “to outlive that bastard of an old man, I suppose.”

Margaery replies, shaking her head ever so softly. “He won’t let them die—even the youngest, whose existence he despises.”

Brienne shakes her head in disgust. “How is this man a father?” It makes her ever so glad, that Selwyn Tarth was a good man.

Margaery intones. “He had married sex.” She makes her distaste for the man clear. Brienne doesn’t blame her.

Brienne looks at her, knowingly. “That sounds like your grandmother,” and Margaery nods. “What else has she said about _this_?” This godsforsaken situation. Her having to babysit Jaime Lannister for an unspecified period of time.

“You haven’t told her yet?” Loras asks his sister, Renly taking his bottle back from Brienne.

“I was _getting_ to it.” Margaery turns to Brienne. “Grandmother wants to invite you to dinner.”

Renly passes her a glass. “Presumably to discuss Lannister? She’s playing matchmaker.”

Brienne doesn’t pretend to the understand the three-dimensional chess that was the politics that drove King’s Landing forwards. It’s not entirely foreign, she’d heard enough from her dad to know that it _could_ and _would_ drive anyone into drinking.

“You don’t know that.” Margaery shoots back, her tone protective. “Besides, why would Brienne be on the radar if it weren’t for Lannister?”

“Her family is the oldest in Tarth, and she’s their only living descendent. You can’t tell me that it wouldn’t be punishment to the Lannisters if their prodigy was tied to Tarth?” The words come easy and quick out of Renly, his experience from over twenty years of dealing with the fucking Lannisters. 

“Renly,” Margaery looks on with exasperation, “if grandmother wanted to meet Brienne, she could any time.”

“The timing is suspicious.” Renly snaps. “Every time she and Tywin Lannister occupy the same room, he bends to her will. I imagine it’s worse in private.”

“Then how would grandmother know the Kingslayer would have to work with Brienne?” Margaery all but snaps, her hand firmly over Brienne’s, like a shield.

Loras grimaces. “Who else would work with him?” He shrugs, delicate shoulders and long hair bouncing, “Tarth isn’t exactly known for its ties to King’s Landing.”

“No,” Renly adds, “but it is close to Storm’s End. Robert stopped using Tarth as a punchline the minute he met Cersei.”

Brienne rolls her eyes here. She can’t help it, really. “I remember—that was the reason we doubled the fee to land on Tarth.”

Renly laughs softly. “That didn’t make a difference. Tarth was the only alternative island to land ships on that weren’t owned by the Greyjoys.”

Brienne sighs. “The Iron Islands are on the _other side_ of Westeros.”

“Oh,” Margaery winces. “Speaking of the Greyjoys.”

Brienne watches as Margaery, Loras and Renly grimace. “What about them?”

“Yara Greyjoy will be taking a the desk three doors down from yours.” Margaery drinks from the bottle. “She promises to bring her expertise in international law.”

“ _Fuck_.” That’s Renly.

“As if _Lannister_ wasn’t enough.” Loras.

“When?” Brienne asks.

Margaery pushes the bottle to her side. “She’s here to babysit her younger brother, really.” Rolling her eyes, she continues. “Grandmother mentioned that she was interested in both men and women. I told her I was interested in Sansa.”

“A Greyjoy coming to King’s Landing—by their own volition.” Renly chuckles, unable to help himself. “Robert and Ned Stark will have a field day with that.”

“Just a field day?” Margaery scoffs. “The Kingslayer will have a week of experience when the Greyjoy arrives.”

Renly and Loras gave reactions of total and utter annoyance at the same time.

Brienne sighs. “I have to work with _the_ Kingslayer.”

“He’s not the worst of the Lannisters,” Renly plays devil advocate, “but still fucking impossible.”

“Is he really as bad as his reputation?”

Renly replies dubiously. “He’s better than that, at least.”

Margaery tells Brienne to keep the bottle for whenever she needed it.

 

 

It’s Friday when a limousine arrives in front of Stark and Tully.

Her week, which had been long already, stretches onwards, unrelenting. 

There’d been the business of interviewing Yara Greyjoy—her qualifications were a law degree and years of experience from handling disputes surrounding maritime law, and by association, international law. Brienne had noted during the interview that while Greyjoy scoffed at the internal politics of King’s Landing, she was a pro at understanding them; of course, her brother had been whispering to her the secrets of the trade.

Brienne has no doubt that Yara Greyjoy will become an esteemed member of the team: judging by the number of invitations she’d received for drinks afterwards, she was already amicable.

It was just that, while her profession had a reputation of being functional alcoholics, they didn’t need to be _true_.

The other business at hand: Jaime Lannister. The rumor mill had spun wildly since that morning, and everyone had taken to offering their condolences. It wasn’t even _official_ , and yet, people had offered their condolences, advice, or straight up told her she had met her match. The last was more or less implied, and Brienne finds that bottle of whatever Renly had given her came in handy. Not that she’d admit it.

Brienne does, however, send Renly and Loras a thank you card for the gift basket full of Highgarden wines they’d sent over.

The car approaches.

“I shouldn’t be leaving work early,” she fusses to Margaery, while the aforementioned Renly and Loras wished her the best of luck. 

“She doesn’t bite,” Margaery offers, but lowers her voice so only Brienne can hear what she says next. “But she will want to talk about the Kingslayer. She kept asking about you during dinner yesterday.”

Brienne’s sigh of long suffering is entirely genuine, just like the way Margaery’s eyes crinkle in fondness.

“She’ll love you,” Margaery had whispered into her ear, almost like it was a secret, that the Queen of Thorns had a heart.

 

 

It turns out, Margaery had been invited too.

“Tywin Lannister called,” Olenna Tyrell tells her, Margaery next to her. “The man’s ego is _truly_ bloviating.” The old woman turns to Brienne: “What have you heard of him?”

“He sounds like a terrible person,” Brienne answers truthfully.

Olenna Tyrell scoffs. “I remember him when he was a boy. He married a second cousin of his—” at which Brienne blanches, “it was much more common fifty years ago and the Targaryens continue it to this day,” she says with a wave of her hand. “—and that _daughter_ of his epitomizes the reason why the Lannisters are fairly despised. Monster of a woman, really.”

The Queen of Thorns sighs. “The sons are better—the Imp has no tact, but resembles Tywin in personality. The Kingslayer,” she chuckles, “has more emotion than he has sense. Look where _that_ got him.”

“Grandmother,” Margaery segues smoothly, “you were saying that Tywin Lannister called. When was that?”

“Monday,” Olenna replies sourly, “and the man was already on third glass of vodka. It wasn’t even noon.”

Brienne asks. “Did he say anything about Stark and Tully? Catelyn told me I would have a new partner soon.”

“Catelyn Tully?” Olenna goes on after confirmation from the two of them, “How much experience do you have dealing with Lannisters?”

“I’ve heard of them,” Brienne replies cautiously, “but I’ve never spoken to them. None, really.”

“Catelyn Stark would only throw you to the wolves if she thought you could handle it,” Olenna replies, “the Lions, that is.”

“Be careful around them,” the old woman warns, “the Lannisters are never far from power and they’re keen at seeking it out.” She harrumphs, “Whatever it was Catelyn Stark had, she overplayed her hand. Tywin Lannister wants blood, and he is not the kind of man to forgive nor forget.”

“But Tywin Lannister wouldn’t hurt Brienne.” Margaery phrases it like a statement, but it’s a question all the same.

“That would depend on the Kingslayer, but there wouldn’t be a point in meddling around in Baratheon family affairs,” Olenna Tyrell concedes, “not while the man is still Prime Minister.”

Robert Baratheon had been Prime Minister for over twenty years. That wasn’t liable to change.

Olenna Tyrell catches the look of distress on Brienne’s face—“Relax,” and it’s soothing enough, “if Catelyn Stark thinks you can handle the Kingslayer, then you’re already more qualified than most of King’s Landing. You’ve made it this far, haven’t you?”

 _The kindness of others_ , Brienne wants to remind her, _or her last name_. She doesn’t. “I suppose,” she concedes, “but I still have to see the man every day.”

Olenna raises an eyebrow at what’s left unsaid. “Neither Jaime nor Tyrion Lannister are married. Rather unusual, don’t you think?”

“I’m sure they have their reasons,” Margaery returns ambiguously.

The old woman snorts. “ _Reasons_. They’re certainly not interested in men, not like Loras.”

“They haven’t found the right woman?” Brienne suggests, understanding now how Margaery and Loras were able to have a conversation without actually saying anything.

“They’ve had over twenty years,” Olenna dismisses, “I’d pay good money to watch a Lannister fall in love.”

“Well,” Margaery starts, “we were talking about Lannister earlier and Brienne did say she didn’t plan on jumping his bones.”

“ _Margaery_ ,” Brienne looks at her, blushing.

“He is aesthetically pleasing,” Margaery replies with a small smile, “though too old for me.”

“Jaime Lannister would be lucky to have you,” Olenna Tyrell tells Brienne, and if Margaery was bad before, her grandmother making note of it was _worse_. Olenna Tyrell seems to look at her in a new light now, in ways that Brienne didn’t trust, “Tywin Lannister would be shitting himself if that happened. I welcome it.”

That thought gives the Queen of Thorns more glee than Brienne thought possible. A smile on her lips, she concludes the topic. “Enough of that,” she says with a wave of her hand, “now remind me, what department does Loras work for again?”

“Public Relations,” Margaery tells her.

“A law firm needs a public relations arm?” Olenna asks dubiously, “the same reason they need a marketing one too.”

“Sansa works in public relations,” Margaery replies with a smile, “I visit her at lunch—their area is always empty.”

“Margaery’s been taking her lunch there for the last week,” Brienne tells, and Olenna looks almost accusingly at her granddaughter.

“You didn’t mention that.”

“I was inquiring for when she would be available—Sansa doesn’t go to the bar every friday, she has family dinners then.”

There’s a light blush on Margaery’s cheeks.

Olenna stares at Margaery flatly. “You still haven’t asked her out yet.”

“No.”

Olenna sighs. “How long have you known her?”

“A few years—”

Olenna looks at her granddaughter with fond exasperation. “Is she interested in you?”

Margaery blushes. “Yes.”

“Then ask her out on a date already. You’re not getting any younger.” Olenna turns to Brienne. “Do you know the Stark girl well?”

“I know she’s had a history of terrible men,” Brienne’s tone apprehensive, “and that she’s distrustful of most people in the company.”

“But not Margaery,” Olenna concludes.

“Margaery is in her inner circle,” Brienne confides, “and I did overhear Sansa asking her if she was available sometime next week.”

“When was that?” Margaery asks.

“Thursday, I was called down to HR after lunch for a meeting.”

Margaery rolls her eyes. “HR is just Stannis.”

“Not just Stannis—the head of security, Davos, has his office there.”

“They’re fucking.” Olenna confides. “They should be fucking.”

“ _Grandmother_.” 

“Stannis Baratheon has a perpetual stick up his ass and the Seven blessed Davos with the patience required to tolerate him.”

It takes a few minutes to pass before Brienne stops laughing.

“They both have wives.”

“Robert Baratheon has a wife and his eldest son is a bastard. At least the child looks like him, the other three are _purely_ Lannisters.” Olenna tuts, disapproval ringing in her voice. “Having a wife and being faithful to your wife are two entirely different concepts.”

“Perhaps it’s for the best?” Margaery offers with a lazy shrug of the shoulders. “He’s a good friend of Sansa’s younger sister.”

Now, Olenna Tyrell rolls her eyes. “Good friend or boyfriend?”

Margaery winces as she speaks. “Their preferred method of flirting is threatening murder.”

“A Baratheon who prefers Stark women that make them hard with the idea of killing people.” Olenna asks as a statement, enjoying it all the same. “Young love certainly wasn’t what it was I was your age.”

“It’s not all like that,” Margaery forces out under red cheeks. “Sansa tells me that Arya is very much a tomboy. Arya was selected to train in the House of Black and White in Braavos—”

“I look forward to the Baratheon-Stark wedding,” Olenna Tyrell chuckles, “hopefully, the Braavosi will send at least one wedding guest to the grave.”

There are no questions on who exactly she was referring to, but there definitely was a list.

Dessert arrives then, and the Queen of Thorns looks expectantly at Brienne. “You will keep me updated on the Kingslayer, won’t you?”

Brienne nods.

“Thank you. Anything will do, as long as I can force Tywin Lannister’s hand.”

 

 

Dinner’s a success.

Margaery finally asks Sansa out on a date the following week.

Brienne stopped counting the number of people who came up to her, offering either their condolences, advice or anything in between because she’d have to work with the Kingslayer. It’s never Jaime Lannister, though that was implied; if she had kept count, she would’ve lost track by now.

 

 

Three weeks pass uneventfully. Brienne checks to make sure the desk opposite hers is empty, it is, and other than the stream of people who finally acknowledge her once, it’s uninteresting.

It’s the last day of work before he’s meant to show up, and she’s absolutely exhausted by noon.

“You think they’re done?” Brienne asks, bag in hand, blonde hair hanging loosely over her shoulders.

“I think they’re waiting,” Renly replies with a patient sort of look, the kind gained from spending twenty years in the center of King’s Landings’ political center. “His reputation precedes him.”

Loras snorts at the understatement of that.

Margaery, used to observing from the outside in, smiles. “He might grow on you, you know.”

Brienne sighs at her. “How many people have made bets so far?”

“I can’t kiss and tell.” Margaery tells her. “but HR did say that there would be a wedding.”

“You’re kidding.”

Margaery is not.

“Tell Stannis he’s a self-righteous idiot.”

Renly laughs. “Keep this up, and Lannister might even drag you to Baratheon family dinners. I’d invite you, but—”

“They’re soul sucking,” Loras offers helpfully, “but they never run out of anything to drink.”

“I doubt I’ll be invited to anything,” Brienne says, concealing an eye roll, “or that the Kingslayer and I will get along.”

Brienne ignores the _look_ Margaery gives her brother and his boyfriend. _Too much scheming with Sansa_ , she thinks, but Margaery had been thrilled to finally call Sansa Stark her girlfriend.

 

 

(Renly texts Margaery during the Baratheon family dinner that weekend: _Robert tells me that if Brienne and Lannister get married, he’ll officiate it in the Great Sept of Baelor_.

Margaery had texted back: _how do you know they’ll get along?_

Renly: _He hasn’t attended any function for the last month and Tyrion Lannister has checked his phone three times in ten minutes_.

Renly: _Robert cracked a joke about Tywin Lannister being the tyrant of Westeros and the Imp didn’t laugh_.

Margaery: _Does the Kingslayer usually come?_

Renly: _He sits at the high table next to Robert_.

Margaery: _Why?_

Renly: _‘Tyrion and the Kingslayer are the only tolerable Lannisters’ according to Rob?_

Renly: _Rob only invites the Kingslayer up because his brother asked_

Renly: _The Imp always vouches for his brother. No one knows why_.

Renly: _Brothers are rarely worth protecting for. I should know_.

Margaery: _Tyrion? Why not the Imp?_

Margaery: _Not everyone has terrible brothers like you_

Renly: _Tyrion Lannister, his driver and Rob go to Littlefingers strip club every friday_

Margaery: _why are both your brothers so terrible?_

Renly: _I wish I knew_

Renly: _I’ve talked Rob out of taking Tommen to one until he’s old enough_

Renly: _Joffrey doesn’t care, Gendry would rather have Ned Stark’s daughter threaten him_ _with a knife_

Margaery: _Sansa tells me that Arya spends a lot of time around the PM’s residence_

Renly: _I caught them on the marble tables once_

Renly: _The dignitary the Iron Bank of Braavos sent congratulated them afterwards_

Margaery: _…._

Renly: _Stannis threw a fit and Rob couldn’t stop laughing_

Renly: _Arya Stark pushed Joff to the ground and they took the other two to the zoo. Free ice cream and ale if they behaved._

Renly: _Shireen asked someone to come in and clean the table up_

Margaery: _was this Arya Stark or Gendry?_

Renly: _Gendry listens to everything she says, even if he doesn’t agree_.

Renly: _Tommen and Myrcella love their Honorary Aunt Arya_.

Renly: _They’re half her age and she’s already taught them how to sneak out of the house undetected_

Margaery: _I pity your nieces and nephews_

Renly: _Ha. I had to tell her she couldn’t teach the younger two how to drink unless someone was there to chaperone them._

Renly: _Have to go. Cersei is about to start complaining about how her father is a sexist monster who prioritizes her brothers over her_. 

Margaery: _please send me a recording if you can_

Renly: _Loras sends his regards and wants me to tell you that you’re coming next week so he doesn’t have to suffer through this alone_.

Margaery: _I said a recording, not sitting through it in person_

Renly: _bring Brienne with you to keep you and Loras from drinking yourselves to death_

Margaery has heard enough about Baratheon family dinners to know the only way to survive one is through _not_ being sober.)

 

 

Margaery knocks on the Brienne’s door that Monday, dressed and ready to go.

Brienne, still somewhat asleep, looks annoyed.

“It’s still early—” Brienne stops herself. “You have that look on your face.”

Margaery has the face of angelic innocence. “What look?”

“You want me to do something for you.”

“Renly told me I was invited to Baratheon family dinners,” Margaery replies with a slight wince. “I need you to come so Loras and I don’t embarrass ourselves.”

“Will I have to wear a dress?” Brienne asks, dreading it already.

“A suit should work.” Margaery shrugs, “leave your hair down.”

The merits of skipping work today have never been so pressing.

 

 

As to be expected, the Kingslayer arrives.

Brienne stifles the sigh as Catelyn leads him in, the two of them trailing her. She knows the layout well enough, but as the guest of dishonor looks on what was either boredom or the all too powerful desire of _getting out of here_ , well.

He introduces himself. He’s slightly shorter than she is, but the volume (and shine?) of his hair makes him appear just as tall. It’s disarming. If she had heels on, he’d have to crane his head up to look at her.

“I’m Jaime,” he tells her as the bottom floor of the building. “Jaime Lannister.” He flashes that manufactured grin of his, and Brienne starts to understand why half the building told her they would still want to kiss him, even if he was completely and utterly terrible.

Besides, she was hardly anything worth looking at, but that didn’t stop him from running his eyes up and down her body, as if she was _attractive_.

“I know who you are, Kingslayer.” Short, curt and professional. The smile drops and she watches as something shifts. “I don’t think anyone doesn’t.”

“Who might you be, then?” He asks, distant and aloof. He’s ignoring Catelyn Stark, and therefore putting all his attention on her. _Oh, for fucks sake_.

“Brienne Tarth.” There’s no reaction on his face—flat, probably trained that way.

“From the fishing island off of Storm’s End?” He replies with a dismissive scoff in his voice, “I thought it was uninhabited.”

“Tarth may be small,” and her voice tightens more than she thought it would, “but at least it is open to the public.”

“Tarth is a pigeon hole used to land ships and avoid excessive fees,” the Kingslayer snaps. “Funny business with Renly Baratheon, a few years back. I hear they tried to pass on my moniker.”

“It was an accident,” Brienne forces out, “and it wasn’t my fault.” The venom in her voice would’ve scared off host everyone by now; but if it’s anything King’s Landing taught, it was how cruelty translated to survival.

The Kingslayer rolls his eyes. “I wonder how used to it you are. _Kingslayer_. Kingslayer. _Kingslayer_.”

She winces, then snaps at him. “Oh, shut up. I didn’t kill someone, did I?”

“You may well have,” he has the nerve to look entirely at ease as he looks into her. “Sources are fickle things, you see.”

In a sing song voice, Jaime Lannister repeats, almost accusingly. “ _Kingslayer_.” The smile on his face is a smug one.

She glares at him again, eye to eye. He doesn’t react.

This goes on for some time, how long, Brienne doesn’t know.

“Well,” a tilt of amusement in his otherwise dry voice, “if you’re done, we have to keep going with whatever this is. Stark and Tully’s mother hen here looks despondent.”

“It would help, Mr. Lannister,” Catelyn Stark replies in a clipped tone, “if you didn’t needlessly antagonize people.”

“It’s not a crime to start a conversation, now is it?” the Kingslayer’s response, eloquent as always.

Catelyn Stark rubs her temples and calls him a bastard under her breath.

What Brienne wouldn’t give to pass him off to _anyone_ else—Yara Greyjoy, for example.

Brienne feels a headache coming on. “Insulting people is not starting a conversation. Surely, you’d know that by now.”

“Is it?” He’d asked just as quickly, “it’s hard to tell, really.”

She looks at the man with disapproval. “You should know the difference by now.”

People enter the elevator, forcing her closer to him. There’s very little space between the two of them, the two tallest people there.

The Kingslayer takes advantage of that, moving marginally closer to her as more bags and purses occupy the cramped spare. “Are you _sure_?” He asks with a smirk dancing on those lips of his, “you’re not exactly an open book yourself.”

They’re so close to each other, that they could kiss if they wanted to.

Lannister, sensing that, steps away with that same smirk flittering across his features in satisfaction.

“Bastard.” She hisses the word at him, feeling ever so grateful he’d stepped away.

She didn’t know what she would’ve done had he stepped sooner, but if the glower Catelyn gave the two of them was any indication, they both would’ve been in serious trouble.

“Kingslayer.” Like instinct, but Brienne catches the shrug of his shoulders; habit, it seemed.

That word, however, was charged, and Brienne’s heard the connotations of it much too easily. It doesn’t come off as accusatory from his lips: matter-of-fact, casual, like they were old friends and it had slipped into the conversation without a second thought.

They were strangers, strangers who had to work together— _people who had to resist the urge to kill the other_ , she can imagine Margaery telling her in passing—and that was it. They didn’t have to like each other, but they did have to civil enough.

She turns her back to him. He still catches her eye from the mirror in the elevator.

 

The rest of the tour doesn’t get much better after that. He pests her questions of all kind—probing, random ones sprinkled with either nicknames or details he had noticed but thought she would like to be privy to.

Such as, Renly could hold alcohol _well enough_ , while Loras went overboard sometimes. Brienne doesn’t need to look to know Renly was glaring daggers at him. She winces in his direction.

Such as, he’d always thought that Mace Tyrell was a boring excuse of man, as they passed where Loras worked. _How his children ended up with personalities_ , and the smirk on his face makes him look alive and entirely punchable, _was a bloody miracle_. He’d credited it to the family matriarch then, and Brienne wishes that time would just _fucking pass quicker_.

Then, the Kingslayer starts asking questions. Inane ones, complete with a complimentary insult and the carefree tone that came with the certainty of a family name.

The man is _shameless_. Totally and utterly shameless, and what Brienne wouldn’t give to hand him off to someone who was adequately prepared to make small talk.

“ _Kingslayer_ ,” he calls after her. She ignores him, just as she does the fact that people had stopped working to listen to his incessant noise. “ _Tarth_.” He tries again, and she rubs her temples. He’s older than her—how can he be so bloody annoying? “How tall are you?”

“Does it matter, _Lannister_?” She hisses back, glaring at him. “You’re the original Kingslayer, I don’t need the title for myself.”

She was taller than he was, and he knew it. She’d witnessed him craning his head to get her attention.

“But if you must know,” because he looked rather annoyed now, “I’m not wearing heels. You can figure out the rest, can’t you?”

They were approaching marketing; among them, Margaery.

He doesn’t reply. Oh, she’s going to regret this, isn’t she? “Silence doesn’t suit you.”

The grin on his face is positively feral—but alive, she notes with both interest and slight disgust. The eyes, especially. “I didn’t know you enjoyed my company.”

“I don’t,” she tells him, “but we still have to work together.”

“ _Right_.” The Kingslayer drags the word out sarcastically.

She sighs, then turns to him irritated. “What is your _problem_?”

Jaime Lannister looks at her, a face of innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Liar. You don’t want to be here.” She pauses then. “You don’t think people see it? That you’re dragging your feet, like you’re attending someone’s funeral and you want it to be over?”

“Well,” his tone closed off, “that sounds like projection on your end.”

“It wouldn’t be any of your business if it was.”

He snorts.

“Why did you come here?” She asks, because there is something about him that is both erratic and genuine. His eyes are always honest, if nothing else—they’re pained, and she doesn’t really care.

“That,” he says in a clipped voice, “is none of your concern.”

She doesn’t dignify that with a response.

“So you aren’t trying to push people away?” She scoffs, “it’s working, if you must know.”

“It isn’t successful enough if we’re still talking.”

“We have to work together. That’s the difference.” She glares at him again. His reaction is one of indifference.

“Is it, though?” He asks, and there’s nothing kind in his eyes, nothing of the like. They feel empty. “Split the work up, ignore each others existence—that strategy could work.”

“And presenting to the board then? Cohesiveness is awarded, not punished.”

“One person presents, and the other answers’ the questions.” if it’s a battle of wits, they’re certainly equal, Brienne admits grudgingly. “Simple.”

“What if a family emergency presents itself?” She asks him in return, “and I would have to both present and answer questions?”

“Then I’d buy you a drink and leave it at that.” He’s oddly defensive about his family, she realizes, their barbed exchange in the middle of the hallway making it all the more obvious. “As many drinks as you wanted.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“I thought I did—” he tilts his head her way, “though, you’d be prepared either way. You strike me as the type.”

“What do you know about me, then?” She throws the conversation his way—if he wanted to make assumptions, he was far from the person to do so. Watching him trip over his words would be fun.

He shrugs. “What I don’t know now, I’ll learn. We’re supposed to be working together.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “You didn’t answer the question.”

“I gave you an answer. It wasn’t the one you wanted.”

Smooth, suave, and relaxed; the Kingslayer looked like he was enjoying this, and Brienne, for the life of her, cannot understand why.

“Oh _shut up_ , Kingslayer.” Brienne hears more than a few disguised coughs behind her. 

She must’ve said the wrong thing, because Lannister _pounces_ , pun not intended. Damn the man to hell, truly.

“Funny,” he’d replied coldly “I remember that’s what the the papers called you. Brienne the Beauty, wasn’t it? They exaggerated how ugly you were.”

He was kidding right? All the papers had done for months was attack her appearance, and he thought that her eyes were _beautiful_? There is something impossible about him, something that she doesn’t understand.

Not that she’d tell him. “Was that a compliment, Kingslayer?”

She watches as he shrugs matter-of-factly. Like it was the truth, an undeniable truth that everyone could agree on. “Your eyes are beautiful. The papers were lying.”

She sighs. This was not how she expected the conversation to turn. “You’re a very odd man.”

He’d grinned at her. Cockily.

How he had no shame, she didn’t want to know.

Thankfully, the remaining bit of the tour passes without a hitch—although, Brienne is glad her phone is on silent, because she has a feeling that Margaery would not stop asking her about this when they got home.

Then, he just had to ask about her relationship status. Her day had been long as it was, there was no need to drag it out even longer.

“Tarth,” he asks her as they finally reach their shared desk, “are you single? I don’t see a ring on your finger.”

“Neither do I,” she replies and tone frayed, “how old are you? Fifty?”

She knew that wasn’t true, but it was fun watching him get riled about the small things. She would’ve thought he was less reactive to jabs like those.

“Not yet forty,” he’d told her, but his tone was without bite, “perhaps you’re talking about your boyfriend then.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she told him as he started up his new computer. She signs onto hers, blissfully happy that she could have break from dealing with someone like _him_ , even for a second.

The Kingslayer closes the door. Then he pulls out a flask.

 _Did he really have to that?_ “You’re not supposed to be drinking at work.”

“You’re not my mother.”

_Oh, for the love of—_

She must’ve done something, because he continues unprompted. “My mother died giving birth to my brother. I was seven.”

 _Why is he telling her this? It’s public knowledge, anyways._ “Why are you telling me this? I hope it’s not out of pity.”

“Hardly,” _praise to the Seven_ , he finally decides to go to work. “I don’t remember her.”

Brienne had finished most of her case work the previous friday; the bit that remained was trickier, but manageable.

Then, Margaery emails her. There’s a video enclosed in it, from the hallway earlier and Brienne groans internally.

“What’s wrong?” Lannister asks, and oh, Brienne doesn’t know where to start. “You’ve stopped that blasted humming of yours.”

She takes one look at the text in the email—those eight damned words staring back at her—and forwards it to him.

“Ignore them,” she hears him say, and they sound _kind_ , for once. It’s strange. “They’ll find something new to gossip about soon.”

“I don’t—” She cuts herself off, ignoring the phone next to her. “They won’t.”

She saw something about the status of the betting pool. _Of course_.

Lannister hands over a pad of paper; she’d sorted out one of more challenging cases she didn’t want to work on and put it in his stack, and much to her surprise, he knew what he was doing. The internal dynamics of the case were complex and lengthy, and yet, he’d managed to capture them perfectly.

 _At least he wasn’t a total hack_ , she thinks as she references the notes to what he’d written in scrawl that must’ve been legible sometime ago. It’s hardly the worst handwriting she’d had to read, but still.

Credit is given where credit’s due. “They’re not bad,” she tells him with more hesitancy than she’d thought, but he did know what he was doing.

He reads over the notes. Brienne watches as he goes over them two, three times. His spelling wasn’t that terrible.

“Are you _sure_ you’re single?” Brienne’s long-suffering day has not ended yet.

Though, he did sound impressed. Brienne doesn’t know why.

“Yes,” she tells him, determined to savor the silence and ignore whatever it was he was doing.

She never thought the Kingslayer would be so _restless_. 

 

 

(Catelyn Stark texts Margaery after the day is over: _I cannot stand the two of them together_.

Catelyn: _Their constant bickering will give me gray hairs_

Catelyn: _They are not my children_

Catelyn: _They are both adults who should know how to conduct themselves in an appropriate manner_

Catelyn: _That betting pool of yours—how much is in it?_

Margaery: _it would be unprofessional to share, but current pledges have been revised_

Catelyn: _Have there been any new pledges?_

Margaery: _yes_

Catelyn: _The kingslayer spent the entire elevator ride looking at her_

Catelyn: _Ned and I were a lot more subtle_

Margaery: _tyrion lannister wants to know how soon his brother will stop moping over ‘having to work in S &T_’

Margaery: _they were engaging in heavy eye fucking, weren’t they?_

Catelyn: _Tell him to ask someone else_

Margaery: _he also tells me he’ll match everything in the first week of the betting pool_

Margaery: _his driver wants to know ‘how soon they’ll fuck the tension’ out_

Catelyn: _Bronn Blackwater is man devoid of any honor or dignity_

Catelyn: _Three years_

Catelyn: _I give them three years before they act on their feelings_

Margaery: _noted_

Margaery: _Prime Minister Baratheon has offered to officiate the eventual wedding at the Great Sept_

Catelyn: _Who told you that?_

Margaery: _Renly_

Catelyn: _I hope it doesn’t come to that._ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone enjoys this: it's 7k. the plan is to update every friday/saturday.
> 
> find me on tumblr @alecsholland and on twitter @dinah_lances


	3. planning, scheming and debating the merits of siblings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jaime and Tyrion have dinner, Tyrion and Margaery scheme, Jaime and Brienne are forced into an awkward situation. (Jaime and Brienne also get closer.)

Jaime’s barely started his glass of Dornish red when Tyrion comments, rather innocuously, that he’d been in contact with Margaery Tyrell.

That damned email Tarth had forwarded him came to mind.

Jaime sighs. “Did she send you the video?”

Tyrion fakes surprise. “What video?”

Jaime just stares at him. “Tyrion,” he tells the only member of his damned family that he cared about, “playing pretend doesn’t suit you.”

“Well,” Tyrion had supplanted, “it couldn’t have been that bad.”

Jaime _groans_. “She’s from the island off the coast of Storm’s End. _Storm’s End_ , of all bloody awful places.”

Tyrion rolls his eyes. “Stop being so dramatic, brother. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Tyrell’s told you something.”

Tyrion doesn’t react.

Jaime sighs.

“What did Tyrell tell you?”

“Hypothetically,” Tyrion starts, “there may have been a betting pool on you and Brienne Tarth.”

“Doing _what_?” Jaime barely knew her, as it was.

Tyrion takes a sip of his drink. “Stannis Baratheon has bet that there will be a wedding. At Casterly Rock.”

“For you?” Jaime scoffs, “as if father would allow you to use Casterly Rock for anything.”

“Uncle Kevan and Aunt Genna called earlier.” Tyrion pulls out his phone, scrolling through texts. “Uncle Kevan tells me that he would have father’s reaction immortalized in an oil painting if you marry the Tarth woman.”

Jaime looks beyond exasperated. “What about Aunt Genna?”

“She tells me that it’s better to marry a Tarth than a Frey. Better prospects. The children produced from that union would only ever have blonde hair.” Tyrion rolls his eyes.

“There is some wisdom to that,” Jaime admits, very grudgingly. “No one wants to stay in the fucking North.”

Jaime doesn’t say that both him and Tyrion had darker hair, and really, whatever genetics did get passed down clearly wanted to spite Tywin Lannister. He full heartedly approved.

“Tarth is one of Tyrell’s closest friends,” Tyrion mentions. “Did you know?”

Jaime shakes his head. “She told you because?”

“She needed help keeping track of all the prospects being sent her way,” Tyrion gloats, with unabridged glee, “and she had no desire to deal with the Lannisters.”

“You’re helping her manage this _thing_ ,” Jaime drains his glass to keep himself from sputtering, before narrowing his eyes. “What do you get out of this?”

Ignoring his question, Tyrion resumes scrolling through his phone. “Would you like to hear who else has placed bets?” His tone is cheerful, delighted to be ignoring Jaime’s current sulking.

Jaime sighs. “Just tell me that father hasn’t sent one in.”

“No,” Tyrion confirms, “but Tyrell did send that video recording to her grandmother. You’re terrible at flirting.”

This time, Jaime does sputter. “I wasn’t _flirting_.” Tyrion stares at him. “I don’t even like her.”

Tyrion rolls his eyes. “Did you even watch it?”

“ _No_.”

“You should,” Tyrion sighs. “Watch for the look of surprise on her face when you compliment her eyes. She seems—” Tyrion rubs his temple, “she doesn’t look at you like you’re the monster that killed Aerys Targaryen.”

“Tyrion.” His name falls heavy from Jaime’s mouth, not without edge—there are very few people that dared to broach the subject with Jaime, not without being shut down immediately.

Tyrion is one of those people.

What Tyrion doesn’t say: _You were seventeen_. _You were the only person who cared for me, the only person who gave a damn about me. I wouldn’t have survived my childhood if it weren’t for you. You may make mistake after mistake, but I will forgive nigh all of them. You’re a good person._

So Tyrion stifles a sigh instead, waves the waiter down for a refill. “I can send you it.”

“Tarth already sent it to me,” Jaime tells, and if Tyrion raises his eyebrows in surprise, neither brother says anything.

Tyrion opens up a file he’d been working on. “Father had me write this—”

Jaime snorts in laughter. “Catelyn Tully’s spineless husband has proven to be less than sufficient to enter the Prime Ministers’ office, much less lead it. Mr. Catelyn Tully is still the most qualified candidate to replace Prime Minister Baratheon. Reluctantly, I, Tywin Lannister of Lannister Law & Associates shall have to endorse Eddard Stark as Westero’s next Prime Minister.”

Jaime is alive with laughter, as he reads it, two, three times over. “This is a joke.”

Tyrion blinks.

“This _must_ be a joke.” Jaime pauses, then sighs. “It’s a first draft, isn’t it?”

“Father’s was worse,” Tyrion offers.

Jaime rubs his temples. “How many times did he mention how crippling the North was economically?”

“He had an entire paragraph about how the North was the source of all evil,” Tyrion adds, “though, he didn’t refer to Winterfell as Winterhell.”

Jaime smirks then, pride on his face at the overused nickname. “Too juvenile?”

“I still don’t know why you like that particular insult.” Tyrion grumbles, but goes along with it, still. 

“It’s funny,” Jaime grins, “because it’s true.”

“You work for the Starks now.”

Whatever it was Brienne Tarth did, Tyrion hoped she would keep at it. Not that Jaime was drinking any less than before, but his brother actually looked _content_ , for once his in life.

Jaime shrugs. “So?”

Silence lapses between them.

Jaime speaks up, quieter now. The lines on his forehead were there—relatively obvious in this light. Still, Jaime is Jaime. He clears his throat, but it’s to maintain an illusion of control, in any case. “What’s _he_ said about all this?”

Tyrion sits in a comfortable enough silence. “You isolated yourself for three weeks and he didn’t say a word. He’s still fuming.”

“That a woman outsmarted him?” Jaime rolls his eyes.

“That a woman blackmailed him via his son,” and Tyrion all but sighs. “Do you know know many times he has called to complain about the incompetence he has to deal with?”

Jaime snorts. Tyrion looks positively murderous. “He called you.”

Tyrion mutters. “Uncle Kevan and Aunt Genna told him to fuck off,” Jaime raises an eyebrow at _that_ , “and since you’re gone, I’m the only person he has left to annoy.”

Jaime wonders if it’s appropriate to laugh. “How many times has he told you to stop drinking?”

“None so far, but he spent the better part of the morning complaining about Cersei.” Tyrion replies with a wince, before offering. “Would you like to hear what he said?”

Tyrion looks like he’s about to start, and it’s the same spiel, always, so Jaime cuts him off.

“I would not,” Jaime replies bluntly, before asking. “How are they?”

 _They_ , meaning Tommen and Myrcella. Gendry was implied, but still only a half sibling. Joffrey was a monster no one liked.

Tyrion wants to ask: _where to start?_ It’d been over a year now, and while Tyrion would’ve loved to tell his darling niece and nephew about their _constantly busy_ Uncle Jaime, there was only so much he could say when Cersei was around.

“They miss their Uncle Jaime,” and if Tyrion rubs his nose, his brother says nothing. “Tommen keeps asking what you’re busy with—I don’t think telling him drinking counts.”

Jaime snorts, but his eyes are desperate, yearning for something to hold onto.

“Myrcella asks me in private,” Tyrion continues, “while Joff thinks that your absence is a good thing.”

Jaime expected this. “Who takes care of them?” He frowns, “certainly not Robert or Cersei.”

Tyrion glowers at the last part of that statement. “Father and I went apartment shopping one weekend—a gift for Gendry.”

Jaime finishes his glass before he chokes. “Robert’s bastard? The one that’s dating the Stark girl?”

Tyrion nods. “Tommen and Myrcella have their own rooms there.”

“Gendry takes care of them—” Jaime sputters. “How old is he?”

“Twenty five, twenty six,” Tyrion thinks, “something like that.”

“ _Seven fucking hells._ ” Jaime’s tone is anything but calm. “Well, that explains why Gendry was invited to family dinner.”

Tyrion chuckles. “You missed last week’s—Gendry and the Stark girl spent the entire time drinking shots.”

“ _Oh_.” Jaime can feel a headache coming on—certainly, they were both entertaining, but there was only so much of Tywin Lannister’s subtle jabs he could take. “Who won?”

“Father told the server to fill their glasses with aged vodka instead.” _Tywin Lannister had a sense of humor?_ Jaime thinks. _Not likely_. “The Stark girl won.”

Jaime mutters, shaking his head. “I don’t know how they keep getting invited.”

If any of his family had pulled a stunt like that, they wouldn’t be alive.

Still, the image of Tywin Lannister watching with stiff disapproval before ordering the servers to open up a bottle of his precious gin so he could watch violent flirting made him laugh.

There was also the long standing agreement that Gendry Baratheon and Arya Stark were always to be sat next to Tommen and Myrcella, or, on occasion, him and Tyrion. Otherwise, the Stark girl would place herself (and Gendry) where the Lannister family patriarch would sit, both legs propped on the table casually as Tywin glowered down at her. The girl didn’t blink, instead offering him a glass of wine. The boyfriend looked like he’d rather be anywhere but there.

Whatever it was the Braavosi had taught her, he’d heard grudging respect, if only because no one dared to cross Tywin Lannister.

Though, and it was fervently denied, father had once said that the bastard Baratheon had more sense than all the other three combined. Jaime suspected that was because the eldest wasn’t needy and didn’t call him asking if he would take them to the zoo, as Tommen liked to.

Gendry was also the only true Baratheon of the bunch, but _that_ was a story for another day. It made sense—the only Baratheon that didn’t come from Cersei being the one that people respected the most.

 _Hah_.

“Tommen and Myrcella like having them there.” Tyrion replies, “they’re rather fond of telling stories about the Braavosi gym Arya trains at. Gendry takes them to watch her train.”

Jaime’s not sure who looks more uncomfortable right now—him or Tyrion.

“Is it better than listening to them flirt?” Jaime had been sitting across the table when it’d happened; to this day, he will never be able to forget the open adoration Gendry Baratheon had as the Ned Stark lookalike told him about pressure points and how they could incapacitate someone within seconds.

The same Ned Stark lookalike who proceeded to take the seat next to him when her boy toy—a nickname Lancel used when being told he couldn’t invite his fellow sparrows to dinner, not knowing how close Uncle Kevan was to cutting him off entirely, though that day was coming soon—came down with a cold, and listened with pained interest as Tommen and Myrcella latched themselves onto him, telling him all about how Arya took care of them (like a mother) and how she and Gendry went to most of their sporting events (like a parent).

Cersei had been absent that week—she and Robert had flown down to Dorne to settle negotiations that had been halted due to supposed interference from Storm’s End.

And, to top it off, his new partner was from Tarth, the island off the coast of _fucking_ Storm’s End. What was the charm of the Stormlands, anyways?

Baratheons, while tolerable, did not make for the best company.

“Jaime.” Tyrion sighs, “ _Earth to Jaime_.”

“What?” he snaps. It was a crime to think about Tarth now?

Her blue eyes were rather striking, if nothing else.

Tyrion rolls his eyes. “You tuned out. What was I supposed to _do_?”

Jaime will regret this, and Tyrion will never let him forget it. “Tarth is from Storm’s End.” He frowns. “Baratheon territory.”

Tyrion suddenly looks very curious. “You were thinking about—”

Whatever Tyrion was going on about, he wasn’t finished. Jaime takes his glass—he’d need it. 

Tyrion shakes in laughter. “Renly’s interested in men,” he pauses to catch his breath, “Stannis is—you think Robert’s fucked her in the past?”

“ _No_.” Horror and revulsion evident in his tone, “I just meant that it was _unfortunate_ she was near the Baratheons for so long.”

“Unfortunate,” Tyrion starts, and this is not a conversation Jaime wants to have. “Just unfortunate?”

Jaime isn’t dumb enough to recognize the curiosity in Tyrion’s voice—and it was curiosity, the kind that he would never be able to live down. The childish kind he doesn’t quite remember, and yet, still present for some godsforsaken reason. 

Well, Tyrion’s childhood had been spent under the shadow of damned Aerys and people whispering _Kingslayer_ everywhere the two of them went. The press had trailed them constantly: and, since Jaime had been the only person to spend time with Tyrion willingly, photographers followed them constantly.

But, enough of that. 

“Tarth seemed _offended_ when I told her her island was only good for docking boats.” Jaime grumbles.

All Tyrion does is shake his head. “She tolerates your company.”

“She doesn’t,” Jaime rebuts.

 _Gods be good_ , Tyrion thinks—his brother could read a room well, but in his personal life, he was clueless. “She hasn’t requested to change partners.”

There’s a clench in Jaime’s jaw. “Not yet.”

Tyrion had watched the damned clip three times before he finally replied to Tyrell: the toleration from the rest of the office was obvious. Tarth was _hardly_ a fair sight, gangly and awkward, and yet, Jaime had spent the whole time watching her. One of Varys little birds had passed on that while in the elevator, he’d insisted on moving _towards_ her.

Tyrell had been more than grateful for his help—now, _if_ he got a niece or nephew out of this, it would be an added bonus. A Lannister child not borne by Cersei was always a benefit.

His brother was nothing but _oblivious_ when it mattered.

Tyrion raises and eye brow. “Is she going to quit?”

Jaime balks at that idea. He doesn’t know why. “Where would she go?”

“She’s stuck with you,” Tyrion tells him, “but Tyrell did mention that a Greyjoy would joining soon.”

“The Greyjoys?” Jaime’s tone is snotty, face in obvious distaste. “Why are they coming here?”

Tyrion snorts. “Bronn wants to test their tolerance.”

Jaime raises an eyebrow. “Bronn thinks he can outdrink islanders? He can barely outdrink us.”

Tyrion laughs at Bronn’s expense. Jaime chuckles.

Tyrion broaches the subject slowly. “I had Bronn ask around about your new partner.”

“Oh?” Jaime asks, uncertainty coloring his tone. He’s still thinking about her.

“Aside from the usual—” Tyrion waves it off, but not before Jaime interrupts him.

“What usual?” There’s a defensive edge in Jaime’s tone—he’s barely known her for a day, but the fact that she didn’t outright despise him, _well_.

It’s the same tone Tyrion’s heard when people tried insulting him in front of his brother. Needless to say, that never went well. 

Lannister Loyalty was something else. Tyrion wants to snort.

Tyrion lists it off. “Unattractive, tall, small breasts—what are you looking at me for?”

“She’s not unattractive,” Jaime sulks, “her eyes are very bright.”

 _Yes_ , Tyrion thinks, _big, bright blue eyes that you just had to notice and comment on_. _Repeatedly_.

“When she was glaring at you?” Tyrion asks with full skepticism. Only his brother could find this attractive. _And a turn on_ , but that was implied.

Jaime nods, eyes genuine. Tyrion can’t say he’s too surprised: Jaime had a tendency to isolate himself post-Aerys, and the idea that he had met someone who didn’t seem to despise the ground he stood on, that was rare. Extraordinarily rare. _If only she knew you were defending her_.

“She’s hardly a beauty,” Tyrion starts, “from what Bronn surmised.”

“Well,” Jaime grumbles, “Bronn is wrong. What else did he say?”

“Men around the Stormlands don’t seem to like her,” Tyrion chooses his words carefully, knowing full well his brother would react badly if he’d phrased it the way Bronn did. “It seems that she wasn’t above punching people if they were out of line.”

“She just punched them? Nothing more?” Jaime asks, curious.

“She also broke a few noses.” Tyrion watches as his brother reacts—curiosity. Some sort of reverence. He was _impressed_.

Of course, his brother would be wholly impressed by that.

Now, Tyrion also thinks Jaime would benefit from a woman topping him, but Jaime had very delicate sensibilities. It was fun. Jaime would enjoy it.

Jaime contemplates that information: “Why didn’t she do more? I assume they deserved it.” He’s confident that whatever Tarth did, it was justified.

For someone who came from a family of quick and casual liars, Jaime did want to believe the best in people he trusted. For some reason, a tall, blonde woman who challenged him publicly did just that.

Tyrion rubs his nose. “It’s not my story to tell. You’ll have to ask her yourself.”

It’s not a very pleasant story. Tyrion grimaces, and Jaime gets the hint.

Jaime sighs. “What else did Bronn say?”

“About her?” Tyrion replies. Jaime’s curiosity for her is fascinating—like he enjoyed her company.

Strange.

Jaime nods.

“She’s an only child,” Tyrion starts, “her father is Selwyn Tarth. Former military. She was a tomboy growing up.”

Jaime doesn’t sound surprised. “And?”

“Go ask her yourself,” Tyrion tells him, “you’re the one who has to work with her.”

Jaime persists. “Are you _sure_ you don’t know more?”

“You do know how to talk to women, don’t you?”

Jaime sulks. “ _Fine_.”

 

(Tyrion texts Margaery: _he likes her_

Tyrion: _or he will_

Tyrion: _jaime is terrible at flirting_

Margaery: _Renly invited me to Baratheon family dinners_

Tyrion: _will your friend from tarth be attending?_

Margaery: _to keep me and loras from losing our minds_

Tyrion: _I’ll tell robert to reserve a seat for her at the high table_

Margaery: _she’ll hate it_

Tyrion: _jaime will keep her from being sacrificed as stag meat_

Margaery: _they still don’t like each other??_

Tyrion: _not yet you mean?_

Margaery: _I’ll keep brienne from becoming ‘stag meat’ too if you must know_

Margaery: _what is stag meat?? venison??_

Tyrion: _dealing with robert baratheon and trying not to lose your mind_

Margaery: _that’s fair_

Tyrion: _jaime only goes to baratheon family dinners because he has no good reason to skip them_

Tyrion: _his favorite excuses are working, drinking, being hungover and wanting death_

Margaery: _that poor dear_

Margaery: _he can’t be that dramatic_

Margaery: _can he?_

Tyrion: _you haven’t been to a Lannister family gathering, have you?_

Margaery: _gods no_

Tyrion: _I envy your innocence_

Margaery: _thanks?_

Tyrion: _jaime is modest compared to everyone else present_

Margaery: _oh gods_

Margaery: _grandmother showed the family the clip of your brother complimenting brienne_

Margaery: _he has to look up to look at her_

Tyrion: _finally, someone taller than him_

Margaery: _he only talks to her_

Margaery: _grandmother tells me that she’s seen it all_

Margaery: _a lannister in love_

Tyrion: _I wouldn’t call it that just yet_

Margaery: _it’ll happen :)_

Tyrion: _what are you planning?_

Margaery: _grandmother wants to know when you and your brother are available_

Tyrion: _I’m busy. so is jaime_

Margaery: _will three months from now work?_

Margaery: _summer in highgarden is quite beautiful_

Tyrion: _no_

Margaery: _sansa wants to visit our gardens_

Margaery: _one of the local strip clubs has their own garden_

Margaery: _I’ll send you proof_

Tyrion: _jaime and I will be available in june and july_

Margaery: _excellent_

Margaery: _brienne will be coming with us_

Tyrion: _I take it that tarth isn’t fond of such establishments?_

Margaery: _gods no_

Margaery: _never_

Tyrion: _she and jaime should get along splendidly then_

Margaery: _brienne doesn’t really drink_

Tyrion: _that can be remedied_

Margaery: _how?_

Tyrion: _never underestimate jaime’s ability to show up with alcohol_

Margaery: _highgarden thanks the westerlands for their business_

Tyrion: _highgarden wine is better than dornish wine_

Margaery: _tywin lannister despises dorne_

Tyrion: _the dornish have a statue in their capitol of him calling him a murderer_

Tyrion: _it’s fair to say they despise him back_

Margaery: _lannister money is always welcome_

Tyrion: _tell the queen of thorns to go easy on jaime_

Tyrion: _he keeps mentioning tarth’s eyes_

Tyrion: _‘it’s so unfortunate that tarth just had to be from the stormlands’_

Margaery: _the stormlands aren’t nearly as unfortunate as the north_

Tyrion: _you’re dating one of the stark girls?_

Tyrion: _my condolences_

Margaery: _he keeps mentioning her eyes??_

Margaery: _stay on topic lannister_

Tyrion: _oh gods yes_

Tyrion: _those blue eyes must be bloody enchanting_

Margaery: _they are_

Margaery: _that’s beside the point_

Margaery: _he hasn’t called her ugly? or grotesque? or freakish?_

Tyrion: _he certainly didn’t say she looked like cersei_

Tyrion: _but he did say she wasn’t unattractive_

Margaery: _hmm_

Margaery: _I live with brienne_

Margaery: _it would be a shame if she had to wear heels to work_

Tyrion: _quite a shame_

Margaery: _jaime lannister hasn’t worshiped her legs yet_

Tyrion: _;)_

Tyrion: _winks should not look like that_

Margaery: _you’re not old yet_

Margaery: _or is it just the lannister way_

Tyrion: _jaime texts worse than my nephews_

Tyrion: _he doesn’t understand what an emoji is_

Margaery: _loras should show him_

Margaery: _the eggplant one should come in handy_

Tyrion: _oh gods no stop_

Tyrion: _it would be a wonderful surprise if your friend gave jaime her number_

Margaery: I _’ll pass it along to renly_

Tyrion: _renly baratheon has no lost love for lannisters_

Margaery: _no, but he does love his nieces and nephews_

Margaery: _they rather miss their uncle jaime_

Tyrion: _make renly record a video for them_

Margaery: _lunch break should work.._

Tyrion: _what aren’t you saying_

Margaery: _renly, loras, brienne and I have lunch together if I’m not with sansa_

Tyrion: _make sure you and sansa stark go out for lunch then_

Margaery: _will do. sometime this week?_

Tyrion: _sometime_ _before the baratheon family shitfest_

Margaery: _noted_.

Margaery: _pay for lunch if I do this_

Tyrion: _A Lannister Always Pays Their Debts._ )

 

 

Tyrion calls him the following day at six in morning. Jaime grumbles, but he’s awake—sunlight comes through the window he’d forgotten to close, but at least he’d made it back to his bed and not one of the couches scattered across his apartment.

Though, he’d have to buy more pillows if all his good ones were in his living room.

“What?” Jaime’s awake _enough_ , but this was early for Tyrion. He’d had too much at dinner at last night and fell asleep in the car. Jaime had videos of Bronn carrying Tyrion back into his house. 

Tyrion snorts. “Good morning to you, too.”

“Normally, you’re asleep.” Jaime sighs, shirt from last night full of lines. He still had it on.

“Father called me.”

“ _Why_?”

Tyrion mutters bitterly. “Why does he do anything?”

Jaime rubs his temples. “What did he say?” He doesn’t want to know, nor care, but Tyrion’s the only member of his family that he really cares about.

Funny how that worked, really.

“Family, legacy, why you haven’t settled down yet, complaining that his grandchildren are _all_ Baratheons, Gendry Baratheon’s lack of spine when it comes to Arya Stark, the Starks, Cersei—”

Jaime snorts. “The usual?”

“He did mention some call he got from Olenna Tyrell.”

Jaime isn’t sober enough for this. “Why is Arya Stark separate from the rest of the Starks?”

Deflecting always works.

Tyrion sighs. “Myrcella considers her a role model and Tommen doesn’t bother pretending that he prefers Arya Stark to Cersei.”

“Did Joffrey get mentioned?”

“Only that Gendry was more bloody enjoyable than Joffrey ever was,” Jaime can hear Tyrion’s eye roll, but it _was_ true.

“High praise, indeed.” Jaime’s getting dressed now. “But obvious.”

Tyrion says something about Bronn being here as he hangs up.

 

 

(Jaime: _y do the strks like direwlves so much_

Tyrion: _starks*_

Tyrion: _direwolves*_

Tyrion: _your spelling is horrendous_

Jaime: _it is_

Tyrion: _myrcella types better than you do_

Tyrion: _tommen at least uses emojis_

Jaime: _what r emojis_

Tyrion: _…_

Tyrion: _do your best to make friends old man_

Jaime: _ur*_

Jaime _: i’m not old fuck you_

Tyrion leaves him on read.)

 

 

Jaime arrives at the office thirty minutes before work starts—the security guard had plenty of surprise at that, and he’s not about to tell him that he’s been up since four in the morning, dreamt of fucking Aerys again, tried unsuccessfully to go back to sleep and resigned himself to coffee for the rest of the day, following that phone call from Tyrion.

Walking into Stark and Tully is the equivalent of walking into a building designed on the greyscale—direwolves lining the halls, grey fishes decorating Catelyn Stark’s office, grey with the occasional shade of red or blue, and if there is a hell, this is it.

For what little it’s worth, Aerys is dead by the end of that nightmare. It’s the aftermath: not the trial, not any legal aspect of it, but rather the whispers, stares and rumors he’d pretended not to hear as he picked Tyrion up from the boarding school Tyrion had been sent to. If _out of sight, out of mind_ had been the mentality father had chosen, then Casterly Rock suited him wonderfully; it certainly didn’t hurt that Tyrion had been the one picking boarding schools, and that had been searching for the one closest to Jaime.

By then, of course, Cersei had married Robert Baratheon—the very young and very handsome leader of the opposition, back in the day, the jolly counterpart to the dour faced Ned Stark—and had enrolled in online classes at fucking Casterly, and was already mother to Joffrey when she did receive her degree. It was an open secret that Tywin Lannister had already called him a demon hell spawn when aforementioned child was barely able to walk.

Then, there’d been the business with that _one_ call Robert’s office had received about a child in the foster care system, a three year old called Gendry Waters, who just so happened to have Robert Baratheon listed as his father on the birth certificate, and _surely_ , the social worker had asked, _didn’t they mean Gendry Baratheon?_

The birth certificate was rectified: Waters was meant to be a middle name. An odd middle name, but there was stability and that was enough to overlook most things. 

Conventional wisdom aside, it was a bad move for either Prime Minister Baratheon or his wife to acknowledge the half sibling, not when Joffrey was already biting people’s ears off, screaming bloody murder in public for Cersei to breastfeed him and everyone pretending that it was cute.

Hence, Stannis Baratheon calling him _very sternly_ from the Dragonstone that he would have to pick up young Gendry Baratheon and drive the child all the way to Storm’s End, because his newly discovered Uncle Renly had volunteered to raise him away from the capitol.

Whether the choice was voluntary or not—Robert couldn’t be seen with the child, Stannis had his wife and a history of miscarriages, and Renly, who was more or less out of the closet, probably wouldn’t have children of his own, so there was no problem with handing Robert’s bastard off to Renly to raise as a son.

It was rather sound logic for a group of people who did their best not to acknowledge that Renly Baratheon _wasn’t_ straight because Olenna Tyrell was someone no one wanted to offend.

So, Tyrion had been a very enthusiastic babysitter the whole way over: keeping the child entertained, soothing him as he cried, and the perfect pillow for a three year old to rest on. The promise of meeting _dear_ , _treasured_ , _beloved_ Uncle Renly kept both of them from losing their minds. The whiskey they’d packed hadn’t hurt either. Though—and this wasn’t their fault by their way—by the end of their trip, one of young Gendry Baratheon’s favorite words was _fuck_. 

Gendry Baratheon was a very well behaved child, Jaime admits. Tall, dark haired, dark eyed—every bit a Baratheon, with none of the easily shattered ego. Quiet, hard working. _Tolerable_ , compared to the man who had fathered him.

By the time Myrcella and Tommen were born, the eldest was the favorite, if only because he didn’t beg for attention every few seconds—it’d certainly been more than enough for his father, who’d send a customary birthday gift every year, though whether that was because it was the one spawn of Robert Baratheon who didn’t pester the Lannister family patriarch with questions every five fucking minutes, or it was because he generally didn’t involve himself with his step-mother or any member of her family bar her brothers (and occasionally his father, though that was always distant), it was hard to tell.

After that drive down the roseroad, and those two weeks spent lounging in Renly Baratheon’s apartment hungover most of the time, Renly always forced him or Tyrion to pay for drinks. Thank the Seven that Loras Tyrell and the rest of his ilk could only handle wines, but nothing harder than that. Ale had been out of the question from the start—it tasted terrible, it was cheap and it had no flavor.

Whatever it was with the Tyrells and their flavored wine, it worked out well. Dorne had stopped all business transactions with the Westerlands after Robert’s ascension to Prime Minister, and Highgarden had taken a certain _delight_ in giving them a specialty discount that year.

Mace Tyrell was one hell of a smug bastard. Though, everyone knew it was his mother.

There’s a coffee in his hand, and a bottle sitting beside his desk—a gift from Bronn the night before, which meant if Jaime was feeling particularly low, it would be all he would touch for the rest of the night.

Tarth arrives some six minutes before they were supposed to start, Tyrell in hand.

“Do you think he’ll show up, Margaery?” Tarth had asked from outside the door, coming down the hall. He can see her hair if he glances up. “He left early yesterday.”

“But everything was already finished,” comes the charming silver Tyrell tongue, always glad to please. Tarth rolls her eyes.

“The Kingslayer could at least pretend that he had nothing better to do,” and Jaime’s already going through files out of boredom, so leaving early was a definite. She sighs, “Not everything was finished, he started one of the—”

Tarth opens the door to their shared office. She doesn’t say anything.

“Oh,” Margaery Tyrell manages, “he’s already here.”

Then, he watches as she gives Tarth a pat of encouragement and leaves. He could tell how they were friends.

Tarth sets her bag on her side of the office. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

She’s honest, if nothing else. 

“I had nothing better to do,” he tells her, going back to the file he has at hand.

She leans over to look at him. “The day hasn’t started yet,” he ignores her for the scintillating details of how supposed hard liqueurs had been hijacked near and around the Iron fucking Islands. Though, Yara Greyjoy knew how to make her point: one would think she was a Tyrell the way she interpreted all the court rulings that left the once home of the Iron Fleet barren and desperate to her advantage. Nothing new then.

She sighs. He turns around. She’s crossed her arms. “We have a meeting to attend, or did you forget that?”

“I thought I wouldn’t be invited to meetings,” he shrugs as he gets up, “no performance reviews yet?”

She looks confused, annoyed. It’s a good combination on her. “Why would there be a performance review?”

“Why wouldn’t there be one?” He asks, “we weren’t exactly _professional_ yesterday.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “You insulted me in front of everyone, including Catelyn.”

“I complimented you. And it was only marketing,” she looks exasperated at that, “Stark doesn’t count. I don’t need her to like me.”

“You don’t want anyone to like you anyways,” she snaps, “besides, Catelyn Stark isn’t a terrible person.”

 _Obviously_.

He wonders how wrong she could be.

Jaime checks the clock. The meeting was supposed to start _now_.

Wonderful time to delay his fellow Kingslayer, then.

He harrumphs. Leans against his desk in a way that he knows draws reactions, mostly negative. “That’s debatable.”

She looks at him in scorn. “What are you doing?”

He shrugs, willfully nonchalantly. “Waiting.”

She looks annoyed. “Waiting for what?”

He shrugs. If she wants a proper answer, it’s not what she’ll find.

“Could you—” she fiddles with her hair. It’s endearing. “Could you wait later? We have a meeting to attend, and showing up late would be embarrassing.”

“That defeats the point of _waiting_ , Tarth.”

She looks more and more annoyed.

“I thought people from the Stormlands had more patience,” he replies to their silence, “otherwise, how else would they wait out those damned storms around Shipbreaker Bay?”

She sighs. “Did Lannisport not have storms? The cost of living there is more expensive than Casterly, and that’s saying something.”

“Casterly Rock isn’t that expensive a city, if you must know.”

“It is your family’s ancestral home,” she says with an eye roll. “Have you even looked at rent around that area before?”

“Why would I do that?” They had a home there, they didn’t need to rent one. “Besides, Lannisport relies heavily on insurance—the Iron Islands are rather close by. Accident and Storm insurance are rather popular.”

“Is it true then,” she asks and it’s an _odd_ turn of discussion really, “that most people from the Iron Islands go to school in Casterly Rock?”

Jaime had gone there for law school. They had a strong rowing and swimming team for a reason—especially at the satellite campus at Lannisport, though tuition had been higher there, for many reasons, as the Iron Born were fond of complaining about it.

“Yes,” he confirms, “it’s the only school that’s close by. They discounted tuition there because they had to—costs for traveling to and from varied, compared to the rest of Westeros.” He shakes his head. “Why do you ask?”

She seems startled by his last question. “I was curious.” Her tone is strangely defensive. “Storm’s End had a similar deal for Tarth.”

Jaime grew up by the coast, not on an island.

He hands her the file he’d been skimming—Yara Greyjoy’s arguments come up, poignant sneaky things that she definitely learned in law school in Casterly Rock. He recognizes all the same secrets of the trade, in any case.

“Greyjoy studied law at Casterly—” he tells her, remembering all the whispers he’d heard between father and Uncle Kevan, the dean of the aforementioned law school. “Her work is,” he grimaces, “quite convincing for someone from there.”

She takes it from him, folding it a second later. “It’s about trade disputes, why is it so good?”

Jaime snorts. “She was hand picked to be the editor of the Casterly Rock Law Review, that’s why.”

“It’s named after a Lannister,” she shakes her head, “why would she get selected?”

“Stubbornness and spite,” Jaime tells her. “She argued the independence of the Iron Islands would never come under Robert Baratheon’s total, overwhelming incompetency.”

That dinner had been quite amusing—both Jaime and Tyrion had been picked as editors prior, it helped when family dinners perfected all arguments _and_ having Uncle Kevan in charge of the law school—in its morbidity, the idea that independence could be achieved, and how she had torn into Robert’s duration as PM with all she had.

Tarth shakes her head, laughing silently. “That’s awful.”

Jaime snorts. “I’ll send you a copy to read later.”

She smiles, softly, serenely. “I’d like that.”

Tarth is beautiful when she smiles—she’s beautiful, always, towering over him with blonde hair paler than his, soulful blue eyes that remind him of the sea, pantsuits mostly the same shade of navy blue that do well to highlight her height (she’d look good in red, he thinks—she’d be a real scene stealer then). And, not to sound like he’d paid the much attention to her, she could easily mimic his posture, without question. She had the legs for it.

Whoever Bronn had talked to, they were wrong. Ugly was never the right word to describe Brienne Tarth.

In Jaime’s very professional opinion, of course.

It’s nice, the two of them somewhat relaxed and enjoying the other’s company.

Or so, Jaime thinks, because then Tarth just has to check the clock. It’s been over half an hour, closer to forty minutes. 

“We’re _late_ , Kingslayer,” she hisses, as she all but drags him out of the office. To make sure he’s following, she’s pulling his hand along.

Jaime imagines the camera flash, he’s sure. He doesn’t imagine the smirk that Loras Tyrell gives him. 

Showing up late to the meeting had been his plan all along. That had worked out _perfectly_. The Tyrells having more blackmail material hadn’t been part of that plan.

Tarth leads him up the back stairs as they climb towards Stark’s office, her strides along the steps as she would look back and make sure he was following. The elevator would be easier.

She had long legs. They were quite nice.

The office hasn’t changed—rather, the long table was occupied, the two seats right of Stark empty.

All eyes on them as they approach the door, and it’s quite the sight—Tarth, glaring at him, no longer dragging him along but still checking to make sure that he was _there_ , and Jaime, who’s been here for an hour already, enjoying himself immensely.

“We’re here,” he tells her as he takes the seat next to Catelyn Stark, “you don’t need to panic anymore.”

“We’re forty minutes late,” she reminds him.

“So?” He shrugs, still looking at her, “we made it, didn’t we?”

“I tried reminding you that there was a meeting—” she’s turned to Stark now, apologizing. “Sorry, Catelyn.”

He starts to say something. She gives him a very pointed look.

Stark sighs, long and weary. It’s still morning, and Stark ardently disapproved of day drinking. “If we could turn our attention back to the screen, please.” Stark glares at him.

The only thing Jaime gets out of that meeting is that Greyjoy— _that_ Greyjoy, the one whose worked he had showed Tarth—would be joining them the following week. He hopes that she brings something from her microbrewery: it’d been an open secret that the Iron Born had a tendency to brew their own, since what Highgarden supplied was too sweet for their taste, and really, what would make Stark happier than having her very own, in-house beer garden?

It’d be one step below the house parties they throw, though, since no one on the Iron Islands cared too much about propriety and the office did.

No performance review had been announced just yet, he’s disappointed to hear, but it didn’t stop Tarth from glowering at him, nonetheless.

 

 

From: Catelyn Stark < _catelyntullystark@starkandtully.com_ >

To: Jaime Lannister < _kingslayer@starkandtully.com_ >

CC: Brienne Tarth < _briennetarth@starkandtully.com_ >

Mr. Lannister,

I don’t know how it worked when you were at Lannister Law & Associates, but here, punctuality is expected, not merely appreciated.

For future reference, spending meetings staring at Ms. Tarth does not qualify as treating your associates and coworkers with respect.

Catelyn Stark

 

From: Brienne Tarth < _briennetarth@starkandtully.com_ >

To: Jaime Lannister < _kingslayer@starkandtully.com_ >

CC: Catelyn Stark < _catelyntullystark@starkandtully.com_ >

Lannister,

You were looking at me the whole time? No wonder you didn’t know anything when I asked you about it later.

Don’t forget to send me the Greyjoy article.

Tarth

 

From: Jaime Lannister < _kingslayer@starkandtully.com_ >

To: Brienne Tarth < _briennetarth@starkandtully.com_ >

CC: Catelyn Stark < _catelyntullystark@starkandtully.com_ >

You’re right next to me. Asking me was easier.

The back of your head was more entertaining than the pptx.

I will forward you an original from Uncle Kevan. When he finds it.

JL

 

From: Brienne Tarth < _briennetarth@starkandtully.com_ >

To: Jaime Lannister < _kingslayer@starkandtully.com_ >

CC: Catelyn Stark < _catelyntullystark@starkandtully.com_ >

Lannister,

Your uncle runs the law school? The one named after your father?

Show some appreciation.

Tarth

 

From: Jaime Lannister < _kingslayer@starkandtully.com_ >

To: Brienne Tarth < _briennetarth@starkandtully.com_ >

CC: Catelyn Stark < _catelyntullystark@starkandtully.com_ >

The pptx looked like Stannis threw it together in five seconds.

Yes x2.

JL

 

From: Brienne Tarth < _briennetarth@starkandtully.com_ >

To: Jaime Lannister < _kingslayer@starkandtully.com_ >

CC: Catelyn Stark < _catelyntullystark@starkandtully.com_ >

Lannister,

I applied for Casterly Rock and got in. I went to Highgarden instead.

How do you know it was Stannis?

Tarth

 

From: Jaime Lannister < _kingslayer@starkandtully.com_ >

To: Brienne Tarth < _briennetarth@starkandtully.com_ >

CC: Catelyn Stark < _catelyntullystark@starkandtully.com_ >

I see Stannis every holiday. We share nieces n nephews.

Casterly Rock is better. Why didn’t u go?

Highgarden sucks.

JL

 

From: Brienne Tarth < _briennetarth@starkandtully.com_ >

To: Jaime Lannister < _kingslayer@starkandtully.com_ >

CC: Catelyn Stark < _catelyntullystark@starkandtully.com_ >

Lannister,

Highgarden was more competitive. Housing was better in Highgarden. There is less nepotism in Highgarden.

Don’t offer me any of your gin.

Tarth

 

From: Jaime Lannister < _kingslayer@starkandtully.com_ >

To: Brienne Tarth < _briennetarth@starkandtully.com_ >

CC: Catelyn Stark < _catelyntullystark@starkandtully.com_ >

Casterly Rock > Highgarden.

Did u want some? It’s cheap

JL

 

From: Brienne Tarth < _briennetarth@starkandtully.com_ >

To: Jaime Lannister < _kingslayer@starkandtully.com_ >

CC: Catelyn Stark < _catelyntullystark@starkandtully.com_ >

Lannister,

Drink it yourself. I don’t want any.

Tarth

 

From: Jaime Lannister < _kingslayer@starkandtully.com_ >

To: Brienne Tarth < _briennetarth@starkandtully.com_ >

CC: Catelyn Stark < _catelyntullystark@starkandtully.com_ >

R u sure

JL

 

From: Brienne Tarth < _briennetarth@starkandtully.com_ >

To: Jaime Lannister < _kingslayer@starkandtully.com_ >

CC: Catelyn Stark < _catelyntullystark@starkandtully.com_ >

Lannister,

Go back to work.

Tarth

 

From: Jaime Lannister < _kingslayer@starkandtully.com_ >

To: Brienne Tarth < _briennetarth@starkandtully.com_ >

CC: Catelyn Stark < _catelyntullystark@starkandtully.com_ >

Fine

Txting is easier

JL

 

From: Brienne Tarth < _briennetarth@starkandtully.com_ >

To: Jaime Lannister < _kingslayer@starkandtully.com_ >

CC: Catelyn Stark < _catelyntullystark@starkandtully.com_ >

Lannister,

Thank you for giving me your phone number, but I don’t need it.

Why did you just send me a picture of you and your brother?

Tarth

 

From: Jaime Lannister < _kingslayer@starkandtully.com_ >

To: Brienne Tarth < _briennetarth@starkandtully.com_ >

CC: Catelyn Stark < _catelyntullystark@starkandtully.com_ >

Tyrion says being self centered is bad

Use 4 a contact photo

JL

 

From: Catelyn Stark < _catelyntullystark@starkandtully.com_ >

To: Jaime Lannister < _kingslayer@starkandtully.com_ >

CC: Brienne Tarth < _briennetarth@starkandtully.com_ >

Mr. Lannister, Ms. Tarth,

Please remove me from this email chain immediately.

Lannister, forward me the Greyjoy piece when you receive it.

Catelyn Stark

 

From: Jaime Lannister < _kingslayer@starkandtully.com_ >

To: Brienne Tarth < _briennetarth@starkandtully.com_ >

Do u still like boss lady strk

JL

 

From: Brienne Tarth < _briennetarth@starkandtully.com_ >

To: Jaime Lannister < _kingslayer@starkandtully.com_ >

Lannister,

I do, yes.

Go back to work

Hand me your notes when you’re done.

Tarth

 

 

The rest of the week continues this way: sporadic, unwanted ramblings either via text or email, Brienne mildly annoyed but still replying, and Jaime, whose handwriting did not get any better, scrawling surrounded by the red pen Brienne used to go through and clarify his notes. They were an efficient team, reluctantly punctual to all meetings, but still with a high rate of productivity.

Now, it’d be better if they wouldn’t insist on turning every little thing into a debate, but Catelyn Stark _did_ start understanding why day drinking was so common.

 

 

(Renly texts Jaime on Friday: _Oi, Kingslayer_

Jaime: _wht_

Renly: _Praise the seven that arya tells me what text speak is_

Jaime: _what do u want_

Renly: _You’re coming to Baratheon Family Dinner on saturday, yes?_

Jaime: _yes_

Renly: _Tommen and Myrcella miss you_

Renly: _What are you doing for lunch today?_

Jaime: _[no response]_

Renly: _Thought so_

Renly: _Come to the kitchen besides the press office_

Renly: _I’m recording a video so they know their uncle jaime is still alive_

Jaime: _okay_ )

 

 

The kitchen besides the public relations department— _was it called that_ , Jaime wonders? The difference was insignificant, really, but based on the number of print outs of Loras and Renly appearing on cable television and elsewhere, it was hard to tell—is decently comfortable.

Leaning against the sink probably didn’t help, but the door was half closed anyways. No matter.

What Jaime wouldn’t give to have Bronn’s bottle of shit gin and water next to him.

Renly’s head pokes through the door, Tyrell following and Tarth last. Tyrell lounges against the door, the shrine of media attention _naturally_ present in the background, Renly grinning like a fool, while Tarth looks resigned.

“Lannister,” she greets, and it’s not unlike the emails they exchange when they’re meant to be ‘working.’ In reality, they’d finished at least half an hour early and she’d email him a nice little note to please stop spamming her phone with memes from the Casterly Rock Law School Meme Group. Whatever it was called; the moderators had been more than happy to accept the request from the nephew of the aforementioned school. Tyrion had showed it to him: apparently he was good friends with most everyone in that group.

He’d picked the ones insulting Highgarden: their damned flower logo always made for fun. The Greyjoy was active in that group, to Jaime’s great surprise, with at least half the text/pictures (he has a vague idea of what they were, though he’d have to ask Tyrion later) being variations of insulting the North and their joke of a law school.

Well, the North was a joke by itself.

The unofficial rankings of the top law schools in Westeros, defined by location so long ago: Casterly Rock, Highgarden, Dorne, Storm’s End and Winterfell. The top spot almost always went to the first two, everything else moving up and down the list, depending on the year.

He’d seen the list and sent it to her in-between the ten minute marker and the five minute marker before work ended. She had been quite stern and formal in that punctuality is important and because it was, he shouldn’t be leaving work early.

Tarth laughed at that one, which was nice. She had a nice laugh, Jaime’d admit under no circumstances, and she didn’t seem too annoyed if he decided to tell a joke at Robert’s expense.

“Tarth,” he greets with a slight nod of the head, while Renly continued grinning. Grinning like he was a king of some sort, but the only time Jaime had seen the youngest Baratheon brother smug was when he knew he had the upper hand.

Loras Tyrell was in the corner, grinning just as large. _Revenge?_ Jaime wonders wearily, but he can’t remember when he or his family actually went out of their way to spite the Tyrells. The wine deliveries were far too important. Phone in hand, Tyrell beacons for Baratheon to enter the frame of the camera, and oh _will_ Jaime enjoy watching Baratheon get drunk out of his mind tomorrow.

“Renly,” he asks, and oh does that bottle Bronn had given him welcome him, “what’s the—”

“Relax,” Renly tells him, “you look nervous.” He turns to Tarth, and Tarth grimaces at him in apology.

_That piece of—_

He sighs. “Tarth, did Baratheon put you up for this? Renly, that is.”

She looks like she wants to be anywhere but here. Jaime doesn’t blame her. “All Renly said was that you wanted to record something for your niece and nephew.”

That certainly wasn’t what he heard.

“What other details did he use?” He asks, because if this was Tyrion’s doing, Tyrion wouldn’t hear the end of it.

“That you hadn’t seen them in a while, that they missed you—”

“Where’s Tyrell?” Jaime glances at the brother, Loras. “Margaery, that is.”

“She went out to lunch with Sansa.” Brienne tells. “I usually eat lunch with them in the office.”

His eyes narrow. Renly’s positively gloating now.

Still, the video is currently being recorded and he does know Tommen and Myrcella will see this, _so_.

The smile he gives Renly is anything but kind. Neither is the hug he _insists_ on pulling the shorter man into, and if Brienne is watching all this with morbid interest, that’s her right. Jaime still doesn’t know why Tyrell just had to to leave her alone for today.

But, if her only friends were the Tyrells and Renly, then she must be lonely indeed. 

“Well,” he starts, “shall we get started?”

And, for Tyrion’s satisfaction, because this was one of his brother’s schemes—“Well, Loras, you might as well join.”

Loras Tyrell looks less smug after that. “I can’t do that if I’m holding the camera,” and he still has the ego to _smirk_ , “I’m sure Brienne could help, though.”

He turns to Tarth, unsurprised. Speaks close enough to her ear that the camera won’t catch it. “The Tyrells quite fond of their—”

“They like match making,” she replies, tone long suffering, “I lived with them in Highgarden. I still live with Margaery.”

Renly watches with amusement. His face is too well trained for him to express any open show of emotion.

Brienne asks, and it’s for his benefit, really. _Why was she doing this?_ “Myrcella’s going off to university soon, isn’t she?”

Renly watches, but doesn’t say anything.

“She has one year left,” Jaime tells her, “and Tommen has five.”

Jaime watches as Tarth makes overtures for Renly to stop making this so awkward—Jaime snorts, Renly laughs.

“Fine, fine.” Renly’s laughing and it’s absurd, yes, but Tyrion’s scheming required absurdity.

“Well, Baratheon,” and he’s doing this partially to spite Tyrion, “how’s my brother been with them? Good?”

Renly looks puzzled. “Tommen wants to visit the lions?” He pauses, takes a minute to think. “Well, before Myrcella could drive, Gendry or Arya would come pick them up if they had the time, and they were the most flexible. Tyrion was always—busy.”

“Busy in meetings or work?” The eyebrow raised in his direction said it all.

“Tyrion was never available friday,” Renly grumbles, “so Loras and I would have to drive them then.”

Jaime snorted. “Didn’t you tell Gendry to take them, then?”

Renly sighs. “I did.”

“Well, that’s hardly better,” Jaime winces, “how does Tommen enjoy Braavosi fight clubs?”

“You’re talking about Arya?” Tarth asks.

Jaime nods. “Arya and her boy toy. Renly raised him.”

“I know _that_ ,” Tarth replies nonchalantly, “what about now?”

“Renly,” Jaime invites, “answer her question.”

Baratheon just looks at him. He can’t place it. “I’ve known her longer than you have,” _but then_ , “Margaery told you right? That she’s going to the week’s Baratheon family dinner?”

Tarth sighs. Jaime isn’t above finishing the bottle he has left in his office. “Yes,” and it sounds dragged out, dreaded.

Jaime doesn’t blame her.

“They’re not that terrible,” he offers as a consolation prize, “Dornish wine is shipped every week for it.”

“I’m not much of a drinker,” _not like the rest of you_ , Jaime hears.

“The company isn’t bad—it’s not everyday most people get to meet the Prime Minister, his wife and his children.”

Tarth rolls her eyes at him. He deserved that. “Prime Minister Baratheon married your sister, and you haven’t seen your nieces and nephews in ages.”

“Fair point,” he tells her, “but Renly is the Prime Minister’s younger brother. None of us are without a certain amount of prestige.”

Renly winces, then tells him. “You realize Robert owns the island of Tarth, right?”

Jaime doesn’t believe her. “Since when?”

They can hear Loras’s soft chuckling—what Jaime wouldn’t give for him to shut up, right now. Tarth doesn’t look to happy at the turn of the discussion.

“Nevermind,” he starts, the same time that she tells him—

“I’ll tell you later, alright?” Tarth looks like she wants out of the room. Jaime’ll have a partner later, he’s sure.

Jaime shrugs, and Tarth looks grateful, though he didn’t know why. 

“Tyrell,” he asks, pointing to the wall of Baratheon-Tyrell press glory, “do you mind explaining why your head is shaved in one of these? I thought you were too vain for that.”

“It was a dare,” comes the voice of Loras Tyrell, “from Stannis.”

“At least my brother is better than yours,” he tells Baratheon, “not by much.”

“Not by much?” Tarth asks, before adding on, “On second thought, don’t tell me.”

Renly grins. “That’s the spirit.”

“Tyrion’s a better brother than Robert ever was,” he fields to Renly—if this has to go to Tommen, Myrcella and most others in high society, he’ll get to undermine the bloviating, womanizing and well meaning, Prime Minister—“but we were closer in age.”

The look Renly Baratheon gives him is both sour and dour. The resemblance to Stannis grows.

“Did the hair finally grow out, Tyrell?” Jaime smirks as he asks, taking the phone from him. “It wouldn’t be appropriate if we didn’t get a visual.

Jaime ends the recording, then sighs. Deeply. He finds himself opening the fridge, digging out two bottles of beer—so _this_ was where security confiscated all the alcoholic beverages—and hands one to Tarth, opened.

She seems grateful as she drinks it. “I don’t usually drink during the day,” she tells him, beer still in hand.

“Some occasions call for it,” he replies, and she nods in agreement.

She sighs. “I don’t usually ask but do you still have that—”

“Yes,” he replies, almost too quickly. Baratheon looks on with undisguised interest, Tyrell on a glass of wine. “We’ll drink it in our office.”

“Whose idea was it?” Jaime asks, feeling a headache coming on. “Tyrion’s, or Margaery Tyrell’s?”

“Lunch was definitely Margaery,” Tarth confirms, besides him.

“The plan would have to be Tyrion’s—” the Baratheon-Tyrells give no indication or recognition.“Blink twice for yes.”

They both blink twice.

“They were sworn to secrecy,” he tells Tarth, “how nice.”

 

 

The first thing Jaime does is pull out his bottle and two glasses. Said glasses are nearly filled to the brim.

The second thing that happens is Tarth asking, “what was _that_?”

“Torture?” He offers it as a joke, but really, it could be. “The video could only be my brother’s idea.”

“Well, yes,” Tarth starts, “but _why?_ ”

Jaime hands Tarth her glass. They sit in silence, contemplating whatever clusterfuck had just happened—

“Tyrion did mention that he had offered his help in managing the betting pool.” He looks resigned. She sighs.

“I’m an only child,” Tarth tells him, “but I do need to tell you what happened to Tarth.”

She looks like she’d rather swallow a lemon.

“Not if you don’t want to,” he tells her, _only if you’re willing_.

She sighs. “The Baratheons overextended themselves while feuding with Dorne a century ago, and they bought credit under the island of Tarth.”

Jaime raises his eyebrows, “Tarth went into debt.”

“Serious debt.” Tarth tells her with troubled blue eyes, “so we had to ask them to bail us out.”

This sort of story never ended well.

“What were the conditions?”

Tarth shakes her head, chuckling bitterly. “That my family would have to give up their claim to owning the island. It’s been in the family for centuries, _millennia_.”

“The Tarth name still has prestige,” he tells her, tilting his head ever so slightly. “That’s better than what a lot of people can boast.”

“Prestige doesn’t translate to wealth.”

“Not that I’d know,” Jaime tells her, and she laughs. It’s not a very positive laugh, but she’s beautiful, he’ll admit, only slightly buzzed.

“We still own Evenstar Hall,” Tarth tells him, “and that’s how we’ve made money since.”

“They still put Evenstar on the tours to Storm’s End, don’t they? I remember driving down over ten years ago and people would always recommend the natural beauty of Tarth.” To which, Tarth had smiled at.

A reminder: neither Jaime nor Tarth knew each other well.

“The meadows are quite nice,” she murmurs, “but we also have mountains, lakes, the water.”

“The Sapphire Isle, yes?” Tarth’s eyes are pretty. They are also extremely blue.

“You’re a walking cliche,” she tells him, and it makes him feel warm inside, though he doesn't wonder why.

Then again, nothing about Tarth should make sense, but it did, in some glorius harmony Jaime had not expected.

He tilts his head at her. “I’ve never heard that before.”

She rolls her eyes. “You haven’t? I thought most people would be more creative than just Kingslayer.”

“The term doesn’t mean much when you’re used to it.”

“How do you get used to it?” She frowns, “I remember when they used it after Renly was attacked.”

Tarth doesn’t elaborate.

He snorts. “Like people are judging you for something they know nothing about?”

She, _Tarth_ , nods.

“Tyrion told me to wear it like honor,” and Tarth rolls her eyes, but she is listening, “and to reclaim it for yourself, so that it’d never hurt you.”

Tarth looks skeptical. “Does it work?”

“It’s kept people from getting close for over twenty years,” Jaime shrugs, “so it must do something.”

His drinking companion frowns. “Isn’t that lonely?”

Jaime doesn’t have an answer for her. 

 

 

(Tarth texts Jaime: _Before I forget_

Tarth: _we need to work on those cases_

Jaime: _worry abt it l8r_

Tarth: _do it monday_

Tarth: _how do you know internet slang so well?_

Jaime: _…._

Tarth: _thanks for this afternoon_

Tarth: _it helped_

Jaime: _ur welcome_

Tarth: _modest too_

Jaime: _lannisters r very proud_

Tarth: _I can tell_

Tarth: _if you must go back to sharing memes, pick some iron island ones_

Jaime: _highgarden > iron islands_

Tarth: _something we agree on_

Jaime: _casterly rock > highgarden_

Tarth: _get some_ _new material, lannister_  

Jaime: _fine._ )

**Author's Note:**

> this fic broke my one years worth of writing block so I will definitely be finishing it. 
> 
> find me on tumblr @alecsholland and on twitter @dinah_lances


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